


He's the Ocean, and it's a goddamn shame you never learned to swim

by UnheardMelody



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Angry Sex, Angst, BotFA AU, M/M, Not everybody dies, Shire AU, Smut, fix it (sort of), strong feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-08-23 21:20:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8343232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnheardMelody/pseuds/UnheardMelody
Summary: "(Bilbo betrayed Thorin’s trust to save his life, and yet this is something Thorin does not want to understand and Bilbo does not dare to explain, not after all the hurt, grief and desperation)"
Under a Lonely Mountain broken by war, lay the lifeless bodies of the princes, heirs to the throne, and the King himself is on the edge of the knife, between life and death.Bilbo Baggins has seen too much, taken too many blows, and yet there is one life he is clinging to.





	1. Chapter 1

None of the epic stories Bilbo has read talked about the aftermath of a battle. None spoke about the immense stretch of bodies on the battlefield: Bilbo can turn in any direction and all he’ll see is mingled corpses, life still slowly pouring from their fatal wounds. Orc blood mixes with elf, dwarf and man blood, watering the ground and glistening in the pale light of a sky hiding a sun that doesn’t seem to bear the sight of so much death.

(How long will the earth be soaked with the horror of the battle? How long before grass grows again in the plain, how long before flowers sprout from blood? How long before the Mountain forgets this spread of crumpled souls, this sea of broken hopes?)

Nothing could have prepared a hobbit for this. His people were born for rolling fields and soft grass under sturdy soles, not for thick sticky blood between the toes and muddy rocks in a forsaken land thousands of miles from home. All he’s ever known of battles came from books, where a mighty hero descends upon his enemies and comes forward in power and glory, untouched by evil, and brings victory to his people. Bilbo wishes he could still believe that. He wishes his hero, his king were standing at the top of Ravenhill, victorious and bathed in golden light, after defeating his enemies with the force of his righteousness. Instead he’s laying bloody in a makeshift bed in a battle stained tent, a broken body fighting for life, a mind touched by madness fighting for clarity and a heart touched by shadow fighting to beat  and fly free, and the lifeless bodies of his heirs had to be torn from his arms, for he would not let them go.

Bilbo wonders how long it will take to clean the field up of all the bodies. He wonders who is going to do the job. Dwarves, discovering the shattered shells of their kin laying motionless? Or elves, unveiling the twisted legs and arms that were meant to last forever, slender and beautiful, and yet broken and lifeless?

(Will they weep for hopeless Arda? Will they cry and ask how many more lives shall be spent for the desolation of Middle Earth?)

Or maybe men, who always knew their days shall know an end, and yet did not expect it would be at the hands of an honourless orc, filth of the darkness?

No one ever speaks of how even when the battle is over and victors still stand, a puzzled look of horror upon their faces, it still seems like it will never end, the clang of swords and the roar of war gone, and yet the quiet sound of life flowing away heavy in the air, the reek of blood and death strong in the air. In those moments, there is no song of victory, no laughter, no relief, only horror and mourning for all the lost souls that will perhaps find peace in the halls of their ancestors or beyond the circles of the world. Bitter regret bites and gnaws at the guts of the survivors, for all of them have lost something they will never retrieve.

(Bilbo lost all that was left of his innocence, and how sad is that? His bright laughter will forever carry the echo of the atrocities he’s witnessed and now carries carved in his heart.)

Bilbo turns around and starts walking back towards the Mountain. He winces as he needs to pay attention not to crush any body part under his feet. In front of him, the huge body of a blinded mountain troll, used by the orcs as a destruction device. He has to go around it to continue on his path, and he shudders as he sees the huge chains implanted where the eyes of the troll once were. His little hobbit heart cannot even begin to understand how such cruelty is possible.

After the troll, he spots a pile of orc bodies on top of what definitely must be a dwarf, for the thick short arm that sticks out of the pile holds a unmistakeably dwarven axe; runes that Bilbo cannot recognise are carved on the handle, and he wonders what family tonight will be mourning a lost father, brother, uncle, son…

Before he’s back at the Mountain, Bilbo’s seen countless shredded lives, in the silky elvish hair stained with filth, in the unblinking eyes of a man fixed upon the sky, in the horrible body of an orc twisted at ugly angles.

(In death, they’re all equal, their bodies decaying at the same rate, their blood mixed together and their limbs intertwined.)

The ruins of the front gate of Erebor speak of a wounded land, of a Mountain pried open by the claws of a dragon and of war, emptiness pouring out of it with the rage of a storm.

The Great Hall of the Kingdom under the Mountain is now a makeshift camp, healing tents raised hastily and a swarming of elves and dwarves and men everywhere. In here the battle is still being fought, and Eru knows how many more lives will be lost before the sun sets again on the Lonely Mountain. Those who were left unscathed by the battle (and they are not many) sit here and there, some in close proximity to a tent, eyes void and unblinking, some with their faces in their hands, and some others with their heads bowed upon the recently found body of a lost companion.

No victory is sung, for the heirs of the King have fallen, and the King himself is on the edge between life and death, just like so many others who dared follow him.

(Do they regret it now? Do they regret following a bright light in the dark, a flame blazing high in courage and honour, a proud leader whose only desire was ever to secure a home for his people, and yet a king who lead them to death and despair nevertheless?)

Bilbo walks slowly in the hall, ever careful not to hinder those who are fighting to keep life clinging to bodies. Most of the healers are elves, and they walk ever elegant disappearing in this or that tent, a resolute expression of blank dignity on their faces; but Bilbo can see the pain behind their eyes, the mourning of someone who has seen too much death through the ages of the world, and yet knows it will never change, and blood will never cease to be spilled.

Bilbo is only a little hobbit from the Shire, and he feels even smaller in the decayed grandeur of Erebor. He is no healer, no warrior, and he passed out halfway through the battle, while trying to reach his friends. He feels like there is nothing he can do to help this wounded kingdom, these dwarves and elves and men risen together to face evil, virtually standing hand in hand to defend beauty in the world. He is just a tiny link in the chain, and he’s not the strongest nor the most precious.

(How many chain links were lost today? How many will never see the beauty they fought for anymore?)

Without even noticing, Bilbo has walked to area of the hall were the first fallen from the battlefield have been lined on the floor, waiting to receive the rites of their kin.

Fili and Kili lay a little apart from the rest, and all the dwarves that pass by stop in front of them, clenching their fists tight and kneeling before them, their heads bowed.

Bilbo simply sits close to where their heads lay on the stone floor, braces his knees and starts crying softly, in silence. Behind the veil of his tears he watches the peaceful faces of the two princes of Erebor, once bright and full of life. Their bodies are not badly mingled like many others that have been recovered from the battlefield. Bilbo can tell where the arrows pierced them from the bloody spots on their clothes. Fili’s chest is practically a whole huge stain of blood, and Bilbo knows then he’s protected his brother till the last moment.

The hands of the two brothers lay close to each other on the ground, nearly touching, Kili’s finger pointed towards his brother’s palm, like he’s reaching out to him once last time in a silent request.

(Take my hand, Fili, take my hand and nothing will ever tear us apart, we’ll be one forever)

Bilbo sniffs in his filthy shirt and then reaches out with his small soft hands and joins the princes’ hands, for they were together in life and so they shall be in death.

The hands are cold and impossibly bigger than Bilbo’s, and new tears wash away the old ones on Bilbo’s cheeks, but these are angry tears, because now Bilbo wonders what would have happened had he not passed out. It is true he is just an insignificant hobbit, and yet with his little ring, invisible to friend or foe, he could have done something.

(He could have saved them, couldn’t he?)

Bilbo stuffs his head between his knees, firmly intending to keep it there forever.

(How will the world’s music change without the carefree laughter of the shining princes of Erebor?)

A warm hand sits gently on Bilbo’s hunched shoulder, and he sighs among his tears.

“Nobody could have done anything for them, laddie, not even you with that little magic ring of yours” Balin says, in a quiet and sad voice, and Bilbo wonders how old one needs to get to understand people as easily as Balin does.

“They were surrounded by enemies” he continues, “Only a whole new army could have saved them” and his voice cracks a little.

“But another army was coming” Bilbo mumbles pointedly.

“Aye, it was. But not fast enough. When the Eagles descended upon us, after scattering the second orc army that was about to attack from the North, the battle in the plain was nearly over” Balin shakes his head.

Bilbo then tilts his head up to look at the wisest member of the company, and what he sees is nothing short of a father who’s lost his sons in their prime. Balin, like Thorin, has seen too much death in all his years, and his eyes silently ask how much more they’ll have to see.

“But Balin, I could have… with my ring, I could have… and all I did was faint for the littlest blow to the head” he stutters, sniffing and trying unsuccessfully to blink back the tears in his eyes.

Balin kneels next to him slowly, and circles the hobbit’s shoulders in a warm and fatherly embrace: “And what would you have done? Thrown yourself between them and the arrows that came spinning from every direction? You would have died and it still would not have saved them. So none of that now, laddie”

Bilbo leans back against Balin, resting his head on the dwarf’s comforting shoulder, and allows his sorrow to stream out of him.

* * *

 

Eight hours later, Thorin still lives. He is fighting his wounds, clawing at life, unwilling to go down, to drift away, unconscious but feverish and thrashing in his makeshift bed.

(Where does he find the strength after seeing the lifeless bodies of his nephews at his feet? This is a question not even he will be able to answer later.)

Bilbo still has not visited him and he doesn’t plan to, unless he’s called. He does not think it would do any good to either of them. He would only hinder the healers (surely the most skilled on this side of the Misty Mountains), and in himself he knows he couldn’t bear the sight of yet another life he could not save, and the life of Thorin Oakenshield at that. But he prays to Eru all the while. He prays to all the Valar, to Yavanna mother of all growing things to heal Thorin’s body, to Aule father of dwarves to heal Thorin’s heart and gift him with a strong mind to fight for his life, and to Mandos king of the Halls to have mercy upon Thorin’s soul.

And then there’s the question of whether Thorin would actually appreciate his presence or not. Even if he’s still unconscious, would he be happy to learn Bilbo was at his side? Would he want him to be there when he wakes up? Bilbo is not sure. He wouldn’t have been sure before, but now less than ever. Now that he’s betrayed Thorin’s trust, now that he’s been banished from the Mountain, now that Thorin’s nephews died also because Bilbo couldn’t save them.

(Bilbo betrayed Thorin’s trust to save his life, and yet this is something Thorin does not want to understand and Bilbo does not dare to explain, not after all the hurt, grief and desperation)

Balin has lead Bilbo to a side room near the gates that was probably destined to the guards on the battlements in Erebor’s glorious times. The hobbit didn’t have the heart to face the rest of the company then, and Balin kindly suggested he had a bit of rest away from the confusion of the great hall and the sight of the shattered battlefield.

Obviously he has not been able to sleep at all, the horrors of battle still dancing in front of his eyes. Every time he closes them, he sees the void eyes of a dead elf, or a man, or a dwarf, or the joint hands of Fili and Kili and their knotted hair stained with blood. He’s been staring at the stone ceiling, unmoving, crying at regular intervals. In the soft darkness of that little stone room, Bilbo feels so cold, no matter how many blankets he wraps himself in, as he thinks of how bitterly his adventure seems to be ending.

In the end, Bilbo resolves to get up and go see how the rest of the company is faring. He’s been told all of them survived the battle, with the painful exception of Fili and Kili, but he doesn’t know much more than that. Earlier he spotted Dwalin sitting outside Thorin’s tent, his head in his hands.

(It’s so wrong it’s all wrong, my King is dying in that forsaken tent and his broken nephews, his broken _sons_ , lay down the amongst the fallen and I couldn’t save any of them)

The hobbit wander for a while among the tents, not sure how to find his friends. He can’t exactly peer into random tents to see what its occupants are; and he is not very keen about asking someone: by now everyone knows of him, the little traitor hobbit who stole the King’s jewel and got himself thrown out for it, and yet is still going about as if nothing happened.

(He can feel his throat close up and his breath catch every time he thinks about the battlements, but this no one knows)

In the end, he spots Bofur walking towards the immense right staircase, his shoulders hunched over and his hat in his hands rather than on his head, probably on his way to getting some rest. Bilbo runs a little to catch up with him, and then gently lays a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder to make his presence known. Bofur visibly jumps up a bit at the touch, and Bilbo winces internally, thinking how on the edge his friend must be.

When Bofur turns around, for a moment Bilbo is afraid: he’s afraid of what Bofur thinks of him, that maybe he too considers him no more than a traitor.

But his doubts dissolve when Bofur sighs and sweeps him in a hug that tastes like relief. Bilbo did not miss the haunted look in his friend’s eyes, and hugs him back tightly.

(Bofur’s laugh, his true careless laugh, will never be the way it was, not after he’s seen light leave countless eyes, not after he’s seen Fili and Kili fall a few meters from him, surrounded by orcs and shielding their King and uncle with their bodies)

“Bilbo, I’m so happy to see you’re alright, my friend. How are ya doing? You’re not hurt, are ye?” Bofur says, a firm hand on Bilbo’s shoulder and a ghost of his custumal grin on his lips.

“I’m alright Bofur, thank you” Bilbo replies, but Bofur can’t miss the way Bilbo’s eyes divert towards his shirt rather than his face. He sighs.

“Alright, lad. You should get some rest, yeah?” Bofur says.

“Uhm, yeah, well, first I wanted to check on the others, I was hoping maybe you could tell me where they are” Bilbo says, getting to the point.

“Oh, of course, well, Thorin is down there, but you surely know that, Dwalin’s been outside his tent all the time” Bofur replies, pointing towards what Bilbo knows is Thorin’s tent. “Balin has been going around restlessly all the time, and I should probably convince him to get some rest. Ori broke an arm badly and its bones needed repositioning, so he’s in that tent on the Western side of the hall, the one near that group of elves” Bilbo’s eyes widen a little at Bofur’s words “And obviously Dori and Nori are with him. Bifur lost his axe in the battle, you know the one in his head” Bofur points at his forehead and Bilbo’s eyes go even wider “but he seems to be find, can even speak Westron again, the old bugger, but the elves were not convinced and want to keep him under observation, so he’s in that tent near the Eastern staircase. That’s where I’ve been until now and Bombur has just arrived to keep an eye on Bifur while I go get some sleep. Oin has been visiting pretty much every single dwarf in the Mountain, but mostly he’s been at Thorin’s side, and Gloin is holding council with Dain to establish how this and that should be handled, you know, politics” Bofur makes a vague gesture with his hand. He pauses. “And Fili and Kili, well…” he hesitates.

But Bilbo interrupts him, shaking his head.

“I know where they are. Thank you Bofur. Do go get some sleep now, I’m sorry I bothered you” Bilbo can feel new tears welling up in his eyes, but sniffs loudly and refuses to make a show in front of his friend.

Bofur nods with a knowing look in his eyes.

“No worries lad, I’ll see you later, yeah?” And he’s already walking up the stairs.

Bilbo mumbles a barely audible “Sure” and then turns around and breathes deeply. Time to face the company.

* * *

 

The first tent he visits is Bifur’s. He’s sharing it with a dwarf Bilbo does not know, but who seems to be in much worse conditions than Bifur; Bilbo winces when he sees he’s missing a leg up to his knee.

He first peered into the tent, whispering a soft “It’s Bilbo. Can I come in?” and at Bombur’s firm nod he padded quietly inside. Bifur is sleeping, snoring loudly as Bilbo knows very well he always does, while Bombur sits on a makeshift stool close to his cot. When Bilbo walks in Bombur sends a warm smile his way, and the hobbit instantly knows the large dwarf has dropped whatever grudge he might have held.

“Hullo Bombur, how are you two faring?” Bilbo speaks quietly so not to wake Bifur, with a little smile of his own.

“Hello Bilbo. I suppose we’re fine, considering the whole axe business, you know” Bombur says, pointing at Bifur’s forehead with a little strained chuckle.

“Bofur tells me he can speak Westron again, is that right?” Bilbo asks, ever polite. Hobbit manners are hard to forget, even when you travel for months with a company of rowdy dwarves.

“Aye, that he can. Well he could, when I brought him back his axe. He told me I knew where I could stick it” Bombur smiles fondly. “We’ll see how he is when he wakes up.”

“I see. Well, I can’t wait to have a proper conversation with him then” Bilbo replies, keeping his voice low and smiling.

Bombur lets out a rumbling chuckle, covering his mouth right afterwards, hoping he hasn’t woken up anyone.

(A little wound inside Bilbo’s chest closes up, it will leave a scar, but it will heal)

“I am sure you will gain great wisdom from him. You know, his favourite topic is ale” Bombur says, and Bilbo laughs a little too.

“It will be mind-opening, I do not have any doubt. I will let you rest now, I don’t want to disturb you any further. Also I wanted to visit Ori, Bofur told me he broke an arm” Bilbo says, briefly resting a hand on Bombur’s shoulder.

“Aye, that he did, and badly. His writing hand too. But as I understand it he should heal completely. Bring him my best wishes, will you? I’ll visit him as soon as I can” Bombur sighs as a concerned look passes fleetingly over his face.

“Of course. I will see you in the morning then. Goodnight, Bombur.”

“Goodnight, Bilbo” he hears Bombur whisper as the hobbit exits the tent.

Bilbo makes his way to the opposite side of the hall, and in few moments he’s standing in front of Ori’s tent. Nori is outside, smoking his pipe, and Bilbo wonders where in Middle Earth he managed to get pipeweed, for he finished his months ago during the journey.

“Look who’s here, our burglar. It seems you did burgle the right thing in the end, did ya? Only, from the wrong person” Nori smirks his impossibly annoying smirk. Bilbo tenses, a remark on the tip of his tongue, but Nori is quicker than him.

“Relax, Master Baggins, I meant no offense. I know all you wanted to do was save Thorin from his stupidity. While he spoke angry words to the elf princess, all I was tryna do was thinking of a way to get my brothers out of what seemed destined to be a very nasty situation. I suppose I have you to thank for their lives.” Bilbo never really got used to the dwarf’s bluntness, but nevertheless appreciates that he understands the reasons for his actions. If only he could avoid looking at Bilbo like he was proud of the thief he’s become…

“Do not thank me, Nori. Eru knows my efforts were vain in the end, the elves were not the enemy we needed fear” Bilbo replies, despair clear in his expression.

“No, they weren’t. Still, I am not sure they would have helped us win this battle if you hadn’t done what you’ve done, burglar” Nori says, disillusioned as usual.

“Perhaps you’re right. We will never know. And what’s done is done” Bilbo lowers his eyes, guilt evident in his tone.

(So many things are irreparably broken. Bilbo’s friendship with Thorin is one of those)

“That is true. But not all might be lost, Master Baggins” Nori says with a gentleness Bilbo didn’t know he was capable of. He raises his eyes to look at Nori’s, and he sees nothing but sincerity.

“How is Ori? I heard he was injured” Bilbo asks, at least to avert the conversation from his personal failures.

“Aye, my little brother’s arm was crashed by an orc mace. Snapped, I’d say. Oin putting the bones back to where they belong wasn’t fun, if you ask me. But if you go in you’ll see for yourself. I suppose I don’t need to tell you to be quiet, do I? After all that’s one of the reasons why we took you in our company” Nori’s customary smirk is back in place, although Bilbo can perceive that behind the façade there is pure and simple relief.

“And perhaps now some of you wish they never did” he mumbles as he enters the tent after tipping his head towards Nori in sign of thanks.

(His little’s brother is alive. That’s all that matters. What good would have been reclaiming Erebor if not for Ori? Everything Nori’s done, he did for him)

Inside the tent, there is little light. The dwarf Ori shares it with seems to be unconscious, bundled up in many blankets. Ori’s blanket is pulled up to his chin too, with the exception of his right arm, which is bandaged and immobilised in what seems to be a makeshift cast. The expression on his sleeping face is pained.

Next to Ori’s bed, Dori is sitting on a low stool, similar to the one Bilbo saw in Bifur’s tent earlier. The burly dwarf is hunched protectively over his brother’s sleeping form, and it stiffens evidently when Bilbo quietly announces himself.

“Master Baggins” Dori says, a little coldly, but not as coldly as Bilbo would have expected.

“Master Dori. I am truly sorry for Ori. I really hope he will recover soon” Bilbo says, meaning every word. Ori is possibly the kindest creature Bilbo has ever met, and in the first months of his journey with the company, the dwarf’s shy curiosity helped him feel a little a more welcome. He now counts him among his closest friends, and to think he had to see war sends a wave of inexplicable sadness all over him.

“Thank you. It is his writing hand, you know. I fear he won’t be able to hold a quill for a couple of months at least” Dori replies, his eyes never leaving his brother’s face.

“That is unfortunate. We will have to find him lots of book to read then, won’t we?” Bilbo says, a small smile on his lips. Dori nods silently. His shoulders are still tense.

“Master Dori, I understand if my presence here is not welcome. I won’t hold it against you if you decide I need to leave this tent now. I only wanted to see how Ori was faring” Bilbo says. He feels honesty is the only way with this dwarf who thinks manners are important but so is loyalty, towards his king in the first place.

Dori sighs deeply, and finally turns his head to face Bilbo.

“Master Baggins, I do not approve of what you did. I do think the matter could have been handled differently, and that betrayal of my King’s trust could have been avoided. But I also want you to know that I understand why you did it, and that your intentions were noble. And frankly,” he turns back to Ori, “I do not have the strength to hold it against you now. I failed my brother today, Master Baggins, and I know what it means when you think you could lose someone you would hold dear. You would do anything” he concludes, a lonely teardrop rolling down his stern face.

Bilbo stammers back a bit, surprised by the dwarf’s words. Surprised and grateful, grateful that Dori understands.

“I… thank you, Master Dori. I am sorry, and you don’t know how I wish I’d known how to do otherwise. It makes me glad to know that you understand” he finally manages to say.

Dori nods once again, and now his shoulders are relaxed, and Bilbo sees how immensely tired this dwarf must be.

“I will disturb you no further. I’ll visit again once Ori has had his rest, if that is welcome” Bilbo says, already retreating towards the outside.

“It is. Goodnight, Master Baggins.” Dori replies softly.

Bilbo doesn’t have time to take a few steps outside of the tent that he hears someone call his name.

It is Dwalin.

“Thorin wishes to speak to you, burglar” Dwalin’s glare is definitely hostile, and Bilbo would expect nothing less from the personal guard and dearest friend of the King he’s betrayed.

But his eyes go wide at the realisation.

It is time to face Thorin.


	2. Chapter 2

Thorin’s tent is just like the others, and yet everyone knows the King is in there. Bilbo takes a deep breath, and tries to steady his shaking hands. If he has to be honest, he’s scared of what he will find in the tent. Of who he will find.

If Thorin wants to speak to him, that must mean he’s awake. And that’s something to be happy about, isn’t it? And Bilbo is happy. It’s just that the uneasiness churning his guts is taking over.

On the other hand, why would Thorin want to speak to him now? If he’s going to be fine, there must be time for this. Even if he wanted to make clear that he’s not welcome in his Mountain (like he already hadn’t), surely he could wait a few more hours. After all, if Bilbo knows him even an inch of what he thought he did, then Thorin would not want to show his weakness. And he can’t be in his best conditions if he was fighting for his life only a few hours ago.

Unless.

Unless he still is fighting for his life, and fears he’s going to lose. The thought makes Bilbo want to tear out his hair. In that case, he might want to say his last words to Bilbo. An apology maybe? Bilbo doesn’t dare to hope.

Because of course there is always the other possibility.

Could it be that Thorin is still so angry with him that he would use his last breath to curse the day he met Bilbo, to reinforce his banishment from the Mountain? Could the sickness do that?

(The sickness can do anything, and by now he should know this well. But despite the battle, despite the blood, despite the hatred, he is still too much of a kind creature. He still hopes that one day the King he knows, his flawed, brave hero will be back)

Bilbo curses his little weak hobbit heart and enters the tent.

Inside, there is only one bed. And it’s a proper bed, not a makeshift cot. Someone must have brought it down from one of the upper levels, the ones that suffered minor damage at the hands of the dragon.

On the bed, a dwarf. Thorin Oakenshield is a mass of pale skin and white bandages, and the blood that stains them is all the more evident.

( _Yavanna, please_ )

His whole body is littered with wounds, and yet the worst one must be the one in his flank; not even the thick bandages there can disguise the long gash that runs towards Thorin’s middle.

( _Aule, please_ )

Only a fur covers the lower half of his body, and Bilbo realises Thorin must be feverish. His skin glows with sweat in the low torchlight, and his knotted ink black hair sticks to his damp forehead and neck.

( _Eru, I beg you_ )

Thorin’s chest heaves and drops at an alarming pace, his breath ragged.

Bilbo is paralysed. His knees feel weak, and he fears he might faint. Once again, he curses his heart. He’s not going to faint. Not now.

“Burglar” Thorin’s eyelids, until now heavy on his cheeks, open the slightest bit, and his raspy low voice resonates in the tent.

Bilbo is in pure shock.

He takes a few careful steps towards the bed. He can’t find it in himself to utter a single word, his stupid heart is thudding so loudly in his chest he fears he won’t be able to hear what Thorin wants to say. He’d never forgive himself.

Thorin’s glassy eyes follow him as moves close. Perhaps, if Bilbo’s eyes weren’t chained to Thorin’s, he would notice the way Thorin’s lips are dry and cracked, his complexion a sick shade of white, his breath way too fast.

Bilbo stops a few inches from the bed, and for an interminable moment, the whole of Arda reduces to Durin blue eyes. Bilbo stares, hypnotised, holding his breath. Those eyes are a mystery to him, always have been a mystery, and yet they fill him with something inexplicable, something so warm and so impetuous, like a storm and an earthquake and a tsunami and a volcanic eruption all together, something so utterly _Thorin_ it actually hurts.

He has no idea what Thorin sees in his eyes, because not even he knows what he feels at the moment, and yet something he must see, for he takes a deep breath and murmurs

“Stay”

(Stay, you’re all that’s left,

Stay, don’t leave me,

Stay, there is so much I need to say,

Stay, they’re gone,

Stay, what is this Mountain without them?,

Stay, I can’t let you go,

Stay, _I’m sorry_ )

One word, and then Thorin’s eyelids flutter close, his chest lets go of a long deep breath, and he loses conscience.

Bilbo’s eyes widen and he’s finally able to move again, he closes the distance between himself and the bed and grips Thorin’s arm, shaking it.

“Thorin! Thorin! Wake up! You need to wake up! Oh Eru, oh Valar, just save him, please, just… please!” He cries out, panic evident in his scrunched up face.

It’s milliseconds before Oin barges inside the tent: “Oi, Bilbo, burglar, hey! Stop screaming! He’s not dead, you fool, he’s just unconscious! He has a fever, he keeps coming and going again, he’s fighting it. Do you hear me?”

Bilbo suddenly knows he’s made a fool of himself, and yet he does not care overly much. A huge wave of relief washes over him as he abruptly lets go of Thorin’s arm and lets his hands fall lamely at his sides, going stiff.

“Oh. I do apologise” Damn his hobbit manners. He desperately tries to choke back his tears, sniffing loudly, without taking his eyes off Thorin’s face in order to firmly avoid Oin’s gaze.

Oin sets a gentle hand on Bilbo’s shoulder.

“There, now, lad, there is no need to apologise. Thorin is giving us a bit of a scare, isn’t he? His wounds are serious, but he’s a warrior, that he is. He’ll fight the fever. And if he succeeds he might see a new day” Oin speaks kindly and softly, his practiced voice betraying emotion, emotion for his King and kin.

Bilbo sighs. Fear twists his stomach, and the look in his eyes is worried.

“Scaring us, that he is” he mumbles.

“Aye. But he’s a strong dwarf. The strongest I’ve ever known. Do you want to take a breath of fresh air? You look a bit distraught” Oin says.

“No, thank you. I’ll stay” Bilbo replies firmly.

“Alright, lad. I’ll be around having a look at the others. Send for me immediately if anything changes, will you?” and he’s retreating towards the flap of the tent. Bilbo nods.

Once he’s alone, Bilbo pulls a low stool from a corner and sits on it, his hands in his lap.

_Stay._

That can’t be it, can it? Surely he meant to say something else. Surely he meant to explain.

It occurs to him that it’s Thorin. It might very well be it.

The meaning is plain enough. And yet, it is a mystery. Thorin could have called any member of the company, and he called him. Him, a hobbit from the Shire he’s called traitor not two days ago, and Eru knows the word is carved on Bilbo’s heart, reverberates in every bone, muscle and tissue of his body.

Bilbo shakes his head, trying to clear his mind.

Could it be that the sickness has gotten even worse? That now Thorin can’t remember what passed between them? Bilbo discards the idea. He might not be able to read Thorin’s eyes, but of something he is sure: they were knowing, and they were clear.

Bilbo sighs. Thorin was always complicated, and the sickness definitely didn’t make things easier. To be honest, Bilbo has no clue what was in Thorin’s mind when he spoke that word.

He looks at Thorin. His eyes slide over the burly dwarf, his broad chest, his gleaming skin, his pained expression. For the moment Bilbo tries to ignore the sensation of strong hands around his neck, of his feet dangling in the air, of his throat closing up.

When Thorin wakes, they will talk. They will talk, and everything will be clarified.

But for now, Bilbo isn’t going anywhere.

 

* * *

 

 

Thorin does not wake up. Even with all of Oin’s efforts, the wound in his flank got infected. The fever is ever high, and Bilbo spends most of his time applying always fresh damp cloths to his forehead, even if it feels like he’s trying to empty the Anduin with a bucket. Sometimes the fever is so high the cloth gets warm almost instantly; then Bilbo runs out of the tent and asks the first dwarf he finds if he can bring him some snow. It’s been snowing for a couple of days now, so Bilbo puts it to good use.

Bilbo never allows himself to break down, not even when Thorin thrashes around in his bed, pain evident on his face. The only thing he’s found out that seems to soothe Thorin is running his fingers through his hair. When he hears Thorin’s breath become more ragged than usual, he delicately rests a hand on his forehead at the roots of his hair, then slowly runs light fingers through his mane. After the first night, Oin washed Thorin’s hair, previously stained with blood, a knotted sticky mess. Now it is clean and soft, and Bilbo has no trouble massaging the scalp and feeling the silky strands in his fingers.

As soon as Bilbo’s fingertips graze Thorin’s scalp, he usually relaxes visibly, pain less evident on his features, and Bilbo murmurs soothing nonsense, just like he would do to help a hobbitling sleep.

However, he’s not too sure he’s allowed to touch Thorin’s hair: he knows dwarves have strange things going on with hair, that it is in some way important. So every time someone announces themselves from the outside, he slips his hand back in his lap, or busies himself with changing the cloth on Thorin’s forehead.

But the worst times are by far the ones when Thorin starts raving in his fever. Sometimes he speaks Khuzdul, and Bilbo does not understand; but most times what he says involves Fili and Kili’s names, and desperation is so evident in his voice Bilbo can feel his heart clench painfully in his chest. It is clear he relives their deaths, and Bilbo knows then he’s so helpless. There is nothing he could possibly do to give Thorin his nephews back.

(How many scars will this damned battle leave? How many abysses that will never close up?)

In those days, nothing can calm Thorin. Bilbo’s hands are useless, and no amount of soothing words does anything. Bilbo suspects only the voices of his nephews could give him some relief.

All Bilbo can do is simply wait for the nightmare to end. Usually, that is when Thorin stops screaming and only weeps silently; and Bilbo’s tears follow his. At those times, he asks himself how this happened, how they got here. How it ended up being a broken little hobbit trying to heal a dwarf king who sacrificed his family to give his people a home.

(They were worth more than all the gold in Erebor, a million times more than the Arkenstone, and yet he could not save them)

During the day, people come and go from Thorin’s tent. It’s mainly Oin and elven healers, although Dain came a couple of times to see how Thorin was faring (he seemed perplexed when he saw Bilbo sitting next to Thorin’s bed, but at a glare from Oin, he asked no further question and only shook his head). Most of the company came too, some of them shedding silent tears, and some just tightening their fists and getting their knuckles white in expressions of evident rage.

Apparently Dwalin leave the entrance of the tent only to sleep, and glares at anyone who attempts to enter it. Bilbo has been subject to more than a few of those glares, and he knows Dwalin has not forgiven him for the Arkenstone. However, he must convince himself that Bilbo’s presence seems soothing to Thorin. That is why after the first night Bilbo spends on the cold stone floor, Dwalin brings in a small cot. He lays it next to Thorin’s bed without a word, all the while glaring at Bilbo, who only watches dumbstruck from his little stool. He doesn’t even have time to stay a small word of thanks that Dwalin is already gone, guarding the tent as usual.

Five days after the battle, Thorin is moved to a room in the upper levels at Dain’s bidding and Oin’s suggestion. Now most of the tents have been cleared from the Great Hall, and the fallen dwarves have received the rites of their kin and been buried into stone in the depths of the Mountain. Men and elves have reclaimed their slain to bury them according to their rituals, and the Battlefield has been cleared of all the bodies.

Fili and Kili have been buried as well, although an official ceremony has been postponed to when Thorin’s conditions will improve.

Thorin’s new room is located in what was once the royal wing of the upper levels. The dragon had not seemed particularly interest in them, so it took only a few days to make them liveable again. It was certainly a better accommodation than the tent in the cold and drifty hall, its gates still rubble in the plain.

Bilbo doesn’t know who these quarters belonged to in Erebor’s golden days; however the rooms have been stripped of all personal touches. The furniture is clearly the one befitting royals, although old, with carved chairs and tables; the canopy is richly decorated, with gems mounted on the wood, the fireplace carved from beautiful deep grey rock, lines of dwarvish runes running along its frame.

The quarters also comprehend an antechamber, a study, and a large bathroom with a giant tub carved from stone. Bilbo has been told all the quarters in the upper levels once had running water and working plumbing, and that will be restored once the damage caused by the dragon is repaired.

Bilbo sleeps in the antechamber, where Oin has had a small wooden bed brought for him.

Days go by slowly, and Thorin’s conditions start improving. The infection seems to have been staved off completely, and little by little the fever starts breaking. Bilbo nearly cries in joy when he wakes up one morning to find that Thorin’s forehead is cooler than it’s been in days, and his breath steadier.

When he’s called, Oin nods in satisfaction. He bids Bilbo to keep trying feeding Thorin as much water and milk with honey as he can, so that his recovery might be quicker.

Ten days have passed from the battle when Thorin opens his eyes and they’re cleared of any fog. He is pale, his cheeks hollow and his torso considerably thinner, but he’s awake.

Bilbo holds his breath as Thorin turns around, the clothes he was trying to mend falling lightly in his lap.

“Bilbo” There is surprise in Thorin’s voice, and confusion written all over his face. He looks like he’s trying to decide whether he’s in a dream or not.

“I stayed” Bilbo has been preparing this over and over in his head, the words he would say when Thorin woke up, and yet that’s all he can say when Thorin’s piercing blue eyes find his.

Thorin seems briefly confused, before nodding his head.

(He remembers. He remembers thinking his time in this world had come to an end, and he remembers wanting Bilbo by his side when that happened. He remembers cradling the bodies of his nephews in his arms. That memory never left him. Not even in the deepest abyss of the fever)

“My nephews. They’re dead” He says, and his voice seems detached.

(He feels detached. Like he’s watching his body moving and speaking but he’s not the one doing it)

Bilbo has nothing to say to that. There is no way he can make that better.

He nods his head.

“If you would like me to leave you alone now that you’re better, I can go. I just need to take a few things…” Bilbo says, ever polite, ever mindful of people’s spaces.

“No” Thorin interrupts him, hastily reaching out and gripping his wrist. For a moment, Bilbo sees Thorin’s eyes widen a fraction, and if he didn’t know better, he would say Thorin is afraid of being left alone. “Stay” Thorin says, and that seems to be his favourite word now.

Bilbo covers Thorin’s hand with his, a gentle expression on his face.

“I’m not going anywhere, if you do not wish me to.”

Thorin relaxes the tiniest bit, and lays back in his pillows, nodding to himself.

“Since you’re awake, would you like to eat something? Oin would recommend it. I can ask Dwalin if something can be brought” Bilbo asks.

Again, Thorin nods, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling now.

Bilbo quickly scurries to the antechamber and to the main door, where he knows Dwalin stands on guard. As soon as he hears Thorin is awake, Dwalin barges inside, and there is no way Bilbo could stop a dwarf twice his size. Seconds later, Dwalin is pressing his forehead against Thorin’s, tears streaming down his face. Bilbo feels like he’s intruding a private moment, and sensibly retreats to the door to go find someone who will bring some food.

“You had me worried, you old bugger” Dwalin says, joy in his voice.

“Dwalin” Thorin murmurs, quite lamely to be honest, clasping Dwalin on his shoulder.

There have never been many words between them. Thorin is a King, and Dwalin the captain of his guard, but more importantly, Thorin’s most loyal and oldest friend. None of the two is the talkative type, and today is no exception. A glance is all Dwalin needs to see the grief in Thorin’s eyes; a glance was all he ever needed to go beyond his stern expressions and his interminable brooding.

When Bilbo is back with a bowl of warm soup, Dwalin is at his post at the door again, all tears wiped from his eyes and his usual glare back in place. Bilbo smiles a little, shaking his head.

Thorin is well enough to eat the soup on his own, although shifting him to a more upright positions required some help from Dwalin. When he sets the bowl down, half of the soup is still in it, but Bilbo doesn’t want to push him to eat more. So he simply collects the bowl and the spoon and sets it on the table, planning to hand it to the first dwarf that will come.

When he’s back to the side of the bed, Thorin is already asleep again. Bilbo sighs, gently passing a light hand on the dwarf’s head. He can’t help but think he will miss the feeling of Thorin’s hair between his fingers.

The news that Thorin woke spreads quickly. In the next few days, he receives visits from all of the company and from Dain.

When there are people in the room, Thorin is the leader he always was. His face does not betray his grief, nor his pain. He has words of praise for his company and their courage, and words of thanks and promises of loyalty for Dain. He expresses his regret at the sight of Ori’s bandaged arm, and delight at Bifur’s newly re-found mastering of Westron.

But when only Bilbo is in the room, Thorin does not speak. Frequently, the only words he will say in a whole day are the strictly needed ones, when he needs help with something or wants to eat or sit. Also, he sleeps a lot. Bilbo knows he’s still recovering; getting up to use the bathroom still brings a flash of pain to Thorin’s face, even though he grits his teeth and does his best to hide it.

Thorin does not show Bilbo his sorrow either. He is cold and distant, and Bilbo wishes he would talk to him, open up. Share his grief. Bilbo can’t bring Fili and Kili back, but he mourns them too, and aches to let Thorin know he’s not alone, his nephews are not forgotten. Sometimes, Bilbo is not sure what to think. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he feels a little wounded (well, more wounded than he already was) knowing that Thorin is trying to mask everything with him too. He knows well he’s betrayed Thorin’s trust with the Arkenstone, but hasn’t he been trying to make amends since then? Hasn’t he been at Thorin’s side throughout his fight against death? Hasn’t he stayed, when he was asked to? To know that Thorin still doesn’t trust him enough, hurts more than he cares to think about.

Moreover, still not a word has passed between them about the whole Arkenstone and banishment business. Thorin has not asked about the fate of the stone, and Bilbo suspects he’s afraid of the effect the stone might have on him. He is definitely not under the effect of the sickness now, that mad glint in his eyes nowhere to be seen, and Bilbo thinks surely he doesn’t want to go back to it. However, nor has he admitted to have been out of his mind or under the spell of gold; he has simply been ignoring the topic.

Bilbo gets more confused by the day, and this is hardly news. It seems clear Thorin doesn’t want him to leave Erebor, but neither does he seem to intend to set things right between them. Bilbo wonders how long before he snaps under the weight of the situation.

However, he does not have to wonder long; it is the middle of one long chilly night when things change forever.

Bilbo is woken by Thorin’s voice. During his journey with the company, his sleep has become very light, easily broken by any noise that might mean danger. In the last month or so, he’s become even a lighter sleeper, ready to wake to tend to Thorin, attentive to any sound of distress that might signal a change in his condition.

For this reason, he has no trouble hearing clearly Thorin’s voice behind the thin veil of sleep.

“Fili, Kili, no” His breath is quick, his voice frantic, and Bilbo is at his side in a second.

Thorin starts thrashing around in the bed, his breath resembling more of a pant now, his voice getting louder with Khuzdul words incomprehensible to Bilbo’s ears. The hobbit is rather scared and at a loss: Thorin hasn’t been so vocal in his nightmares since the days and nights of the fever, and although he’s been recovering well enough now, Bilbo fears that he will hurt himself.

So he carefully places a small hand on Thorin’s arm.

“Thorin, Thorin, it’s alright, wake up, it’s just a nightmare, wake up, you’ll hurt yourself like that” he resolves to waking him.

After a few more words and a bit more shaking, Thorin finally goes still as he opens his eyes. The sight shocks Bilbo. They’re the eyes of a wounded and hunted animal, the eyes of somebody who’s lost everything, eyes haunted by demons as dark as darkness itself.

“Bilbo” Thorin pants, while trying to steady his breath.

“Yes, Thorin, it’s me” Bilbo replies gently, rubbing his hand along Thorin’s arm to soothe him.

Thorin’s breath is a little calmer now, but his piercing blue eyes haven’t left Bilbo’s, and the hobbit sees something in them he cannot name.

But it’s just a flash, because next thing he knows, Thorin has pulled him down by his arm, and Bilbo’s head ends up crashing on Thorin’s shoulder.

“Stay” Thorin murmurs, and then he brushes his lips against Bilbo’s jaw, right under his earlobe.

Bilbo’s eyes widen as Thorin repeats the word at each kiss he leaves down his neck, and Bilbo feels like he’s being marked with fire, his skin burning and his head spinning, and he has no idea of what is going on. Thorin’s lips stop when they meet the line of the hobbit’s night shirt, as if in a mute request. “Stay”, he repeats on the hem of the fabric.

Realisation dawns in Bilbo in a shockingly clear way. This is the moment he needs to decide what to do. He has not even nearly enough elements to make such a decision, and yet he knows the way things will go depends on what he will do this very moment. He can end this thing, whatever it is, here, and go back to his bed, or he can give Thorin the permission he’s asking for.

He realises he’s known since the first moment he set eyes on Thorin Oakenshield.

He tilts his head and lets the collar of his shirt fall a little bit further, uncovering a small strip of skin under Thorin’s lips. That’s all that it takes.

Thorin’s strong arms pull him on the bed, and before he knows it, the dwarf has him on his back and is holding himself above him, head plunged in to kiss as far as his shirt will permit. Bilbo’s hands tangle in Thorin’s hair spontaneously; Thorin stiffens for a second, and then resumes his kissing.

He goes lower over the fabric of the shirt, until he finds a nipple, the bud hard even through the cloth. Bilbo lets out a small surprised whimper and he arches up, bucking against Thorin. He’s hard.

Thorin growls lowly in appreciation, and abruptly sits up. Bilbo watches him from the pillows and he’s a vision, his dark hair dishevelled, his naked chest covered in thick hair, and the most shocking lust in his eyes. Bilbo has never seen such a look in Thorin’s eyes, and it sets the blood in his veins on fire.

It turns out Thorin sat up to relieve Bilbo of his shirt, and so he does. His warm hands slide the cloth up with a gentleness Bilbo did not think possible, helping him take it off. Once the shirt has been discarded, possibly on the floor, Thorin resumes his cares to Bilbo’s nipple, licking it and making it impossibly hard. Bilbo desperately tries to stifle his moans, but with little success. Thorin’s big fingertips climb up to his mouth, grazing his lips, and Bilbo realises Thorin doesn’t want him to keep quiet. He slips his tongue out and engulfs the dwarf’s index finger in his mouth, causing him to raise his head and watch him, mesmerized.

After a few seconds, Bilbo is burning under Thorin’s gaze.

(Damn him, damn his eyes, I would do anything those eyes asked me to do)

He can’t hold back anymore, and he bucks up once more, seeking Thorin’s body with his hips, and suddenly Thorin seems to be reminded of his own arousal. He places a hand on Bilbo’s hip to steady him, and then gives a low growl before taking his hand from Bilbo’s mouth and using it to remove Bilbo’s smallclothes. Bilbo is pleased that this useless obstacle has been taken away, and reaches out to tug at Thorin’s smalls too, only to see his hands abruptly pinned down by the dwarf, who removes the clothes himself.

It is a glorious moment when finally they are both naked. Thorin is a sight to behold, still sitting up, his cock jutting out proudly. Bilbo can feel his own cock is already leaking, and he thinks he’s going to go mad if Thorin doesn’t let him do anything or doesn’t do anything himself.

He doesn’t have to wait long, for Thorin crushes upon him like a wave, head lowered once again to keep mouthing at his nipples, and a big warm hand engulfing Bilbo’s cock and stroking it gently. Suddenly it is all so abrupt that Bilbo’s breath stutters, his mouth open in a silent cry.

Bilbo’s hips start responding immediately, and he thrusts up in Thorin’s hand, seeking relief. But Thorin is clever, and has no intention to make it all end this quickly. Bilbo knows this instant it will be a long and painful thing, to get his pleasure.

When Bilbo is panting and murmuring meaningless words, but more frequently “Thorin, please”, Thorin lets go of his cock and lets his hand slide further down, caressing his balls lasciviously and stopping at Bilbo’s entrance to rub light circles around it.

Bilbo knows this is a silent request again. He knows that this is the point of no return, he knows things won’t be able to go back to the way they were, after this. But then it occurs to him that things can never be the way they were, they couldn’t be even before this, because he’s betrayed Thorin and Thorin has tried to kill him for it in return, and between them there are wounds that will never heal, and countless souls haunting a battlefield. And he decides that screw it, screw everything, if this is what he can have, he will take it; he is tired, so tired of being polite, so tired of being generous, he wants to be selfish for once, he wants to take without caring about giving back, he wants to claim his prize.

(It will hurt, later, it will hurt in his deepest corners, but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care)

“Oil. We need oil, it is on the table, some left from dinner” he manages to utter, a bit disconnected but effective nonetheless, because Thorin is up in a flash and before Bilbo knows it, he’s back on the bed, spreading his legs gently and positioning himself between them.

He doesn’t waste time, because moments later a slick finger is prodding at Bilbo’s hole, seeking entrance. Bilbo trembles, with anticipation and with something he cannot name, and Thorin lays an unexpectedly gentle hand on his stomach and points his burning blue eyes in Bilbo’s.

“Relax” is all he says, and yet Bilbo is glad, glad Thorin cares for him enough to at least want him to find some pleasure in this. He tries to relax his muscles, as a thick finger finds its way inside him, slow and yet unyielding. In the end Bilbo’s muscles can’t but surrender to the pressure, and Thorin seizes the opportunity to start moving his finger back and forth slowly. He appears focused on his task, and if Bilbo’s vision in the dim light of lamp on the bedside table were better, he would perhaps notice Thorin’s pupils are blown out, and he’s deeply fascinated.

Another finger follows the first one, and pleasure starts hitting Bilbo in waves, his bucking hips demanding more, desperately trying to get some friction Thorin is unwilling to give at the moment.

When the third finger comes, Bilbo is all but begging, his gentlehobbit dignity all but laying crumpled on the floor, his moans unrestricted.

But Thorin ignores his pleas until he deems he’s done enough stretching and scissoring and shifting. When the dwarf’s fingers leave him, Bilbo abruptly feels so empty his eyes widen and his mouth opens, his breath cut in his throat.

But soon enough, the slick tip of Thorin’s cock is prodding at his hole, impossibly large and impossibly warm, and Bilbo tries pushing back against it. Immediately Thorin’s hands come to steady his hips, a grunt escaping his mouth.

“Mahal, stay still, or I won’t be able to control myself” he pants, his voice low and strained.

Bilbo would like to shout he doesn’t want Thorin to control himself, for Yavanna’s sake, he wants to be fucked, he wants his wits to be fucked out of him, he wants his pain to end, to be forgotten even just for a few glorious minutes. However he finds he can’t form coherent words at the moment, so he just tries to wriggle in Thorin’s grasp.

But Thorin is unyielding, and he keeps him steady, sliding his cock inside inch by inch, painfully slow, and Bilbo thinks he will go mad.

When Thorin’s balls brush against Bilbo’s cheeks and he’s fully inside, Thorin allows himself a deep low grunt. He’s visibly trying to hold back from thrusting to give Bilbo time to adjust, and Bilbo is grateful for that, for he can feel a stinging pain; however he finds he does not care in the least, he wants more, Eru knows he does.

“Thorin, please, now” he manages to say, and finally Thorin starts thrusting.

At first it’s long deep thrusts, Thorin trying to adjust his angle to get as deep as possible. Then he starts pounding hard, his cock disappearing in and out of Bilbo quickly, the bed creaking under their bodies.

Finally Bilbo feels full, the pressure unbearable and yet essential. He’s never known something so deep, so intimate as the way their bodies move together: for Thorin is not holding him down anymore, and Bilbo’s hips rise to meet his thrusts, a perfect dance, and everything around them could be on fire, and Bilbo would not notice.

Thorin drives in with all his strength, seeking something he can’t even name, his larger body covering all of Bilbo, skin brushing skin, muscle crashing against soft flesh.

(He feels empty, so empty, and he thrusts to push this emptiness out, to feel something other than pain, to desperately stitch the gash in his soul, but the shadow is thick, and no amount of fucking can drive it out, like poison bleeding from a wound, but he refuses to accept this)

Bilbo can feel his climax approaching, tension building up in his body, and Thorin’s touch scorches him with the pain that pours out of it, pours out of Thorin’s soul like a flood, and there seems to be no end to it, and Bilbo can feel tears welling up in his eyes, but he knows he won’t let them breach his rims, for he knows Thorin can see well even in the dim light, and he is too hurt, too wounded, too lonely to lose even the last drop that’s left of his pride.

Thorin grasps Bilbo’s cock frantically, his thrusts now erratic but careful to hit that spot that has Bilbo whimpering, and he it only takes a few pulls for Bilbo to spill all over his hand. Thorin can feel the muscles clenching around his cock, and it’s too much to bear

(Too late, it’s too late to back)

and he comes with a cry, his breath fast and uncontrolled, his hips trembling.

With the last of his wits, Thorin takes care to fall on Bilbo’s side, rather than crushing his little body against the mattress.

There’s a few moments of silence, while they both catch their breath and climb down from their pleasure.

Bilbo is shattered, utterly undone, and yet in his mind he knows there is something he needs to ask, something he won’t have the courage to ask again.

“Why?” It’s only one little whispered word, and yet Bilbo feels like he just shouted out to the world, the taste still bitter on his tongue.

But the dreaded answer does not come.

Thorin turns on his side, his back facing Bilbo, and Bilbo finally lets one lonely tear escape his eyes.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was one long chapter. And dense of events. But it just came out like that, and every single word I write comes from my soul, which is why I hardly ever edit anything after writing a first draft. All of this means: if it sucks, I'm sorry, these are literally the words written all over me, I just read them.  
> Would love to hear your feedback, thanks for staying.


	3. Chapter 3

Everything is still. It feels like a painting in a frame, inside the royal bed chamber of the King under the Mountain. Not even dust seems to flicker in the faint morning light coming from an aperture in the ceiling and brought to the depths of the Mountain by a clever game of mirrors. Sunlight under the Mountain, a privilege Bilbo is sure can only belong to royalty. He knows he’ll miss this.

The above mentioned King lies on the bed, apparently unmoving, a bed sheet wrapped around his middle and a bare back facing the entrance. Angry red scars paint the skin darkened by work and labour, and black hair cascades down his neck onto the pillow.

Everything is so still and Bilbo can’t comprehend it, not when a storm is going on inside him, not when all he would like to do is scream at the top of his lungs. But he doesn’t and instead he watches calmly that frame that does not seem subject to time.

In the end, he releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and simply turns around. The action does not disrupt the still perfection of the room, for the hobbit is so quiet on his feet not even a shuffle is heard.

(That’s what he is, isn’t it? The little hobbit with light feet and quick hands who will leave no trace of his passing, on the ground or in the hearts of those around him. He’s always known, and yet it hurts, it hurts every time)

In the antechamber, his old pack from the journey is waiting for him, very light now, but Bilbo picks it up nevertheless. Bed sheets are folded neatly on his little makeshift bed, and Bilbo does not spare a last glance for it. After all, he’s spent in that bed every night apart from one for only a month. He’ll forget soon.

He tells himself that now everything is just too fresh in his memory, the screams still shrill in his ears, the shape of warm hands still drawn on his skin, the ghost of silky hair tickling his chest. He can still feel it, all of it, like the sensations are impressed with fire in his brain.

But he will forget. He must forget.

He knows Thorin will want him to forget. He probably won’t even mention what passed between them ever again. Sure as gold (how ironic) he will go on ignoring him like he did since he woke up, a clear mind and a broken soul, like he never asked Bilbo to stay, like he never heard Bilbo’s voice or felt his hands in his hair when he kept reliving the deaths of his nephews over and over again.

(He’s heard him, he’s felt his hands, but he’ll never say, he’ll never thank, he’s Thorin Oakenshield King under the Mountain and the voice, the hands, belong to a traitor burglar he would still trust with his life, but he can’t afford this, he just can’t)

When the hobbit quietly closes the doors of the royal quarters behind himself, a guard he’s never seen before spares for him but a glance, and he’s grateful it’s too early for Dwalin to be here. He will find out soon enough, but at least Bilbo won’t have to face him now. After all, he knows that if he opens his mouth those screams he’s keeping in would be set free, and he doesn’t want that. A burglar hobbit he might be, but he still has a dignity.

Bilbo knows he’s not going to leave the Mountain, not for now. Not when Fili and Kili’s funeral is yet to be celebrated and, he hates to admit it, not when Thorin has not completely recovered yet. He now knows all too well the King can move easily enough, but he also knows it will take a bit longer until he’s able to lift a sword and fight again, or hold council. The coronation will take place as soon as he’s well recovered, but until then Dain will have to stay in Erebor. Probably, Bilbo wagers, until the beginning of spring, for it is now December and winter is setting in fast on the unforgiving Lonely Mountain.

And then there is a little nagging voice that Bilbo tries to ignore with all himself, and it keeps whispering that there is still hope, that maybe last night was something more than just looking for relief in someone else’s body, that maybe Thorin feels something for him, something good and untouched by all the debris around them. Bilbo shoves the voice back with force, because he cannot allow himself this, not when he’s seen Thorin’s eyes when he reached his peak.

(He saw them, there was little light but enough for it, he saw them and they were empty, void, and they hurt Bilbo more than anything, more than that unanswered question, more than the rage he saw the day he stole the Arkenstone)

Bilbo is not the crying type, nor is he one to show others he’s hurt. He’s one of those people who always have a smile ready on their lips for whoever might need it, a word of comfort ready to spill and grief stuck in their throats with little possibility to take over.

That is why when he knocks on Bofur’s door, he wears tired sad eyes and an apologetic smile on his lips. He’s wandered around for a while, unwilling to wake Bofur so early in the morning. The Company has been quartered in the upper levels near the royal wing, on Dain’s wish at first and then Thorin’s explicit recommendation. Obviously the rooms are all quite scant and have very little furniture, but Bilbo does not doubt it won’t be long before they’re made warm and cosy again by the industriousness of dwarves.

A sleepy Bofur opens the door, and his eyes widen a fraction when he spots Bilbo’s pack on his back.

“Bilbo, my friend, what happened? Come in!” He says, pulling Bilbo inside.

“Hullo Bofur, uhm, I am truly sorry to barge uninvited in your quarters, in fact I most profoundly apologise...” Bilbo does not have time to finish, for Bofur is taking his pack from his shoulders and dropping it somewhere on a chair, and strongly encouraging Bilbo to sit down (more like shoving him on a chair, _dwarves_ ).

“Nonsense, you’re always more than welcome here!” he says, his jovial smile on his lips but a shadow of worry in his eyes.

Bilbo looks at him, really _looks_ , for the first time in a month, a month in which all the world around him was shadowed by his care towards Thorin Oakenshield. He sees that Bofur’s eyes are tired, like they’ve seen things that can never be turned into toys, or anything bright and beautiful. But his smile is his old smirk, his optimistic and contagious smile, and Bilbo knows there is hope in him, hope for a new home and a new life. He knows they all have wounds that will take time to heal, and some of them never will, but he can’t help but feel happy for his friend.

“Well thank you, Bofur, that is most kind of you, and I was, uhm, actually wondering if I could stay here for a couple of days, just until, you know, I find a little room for myself around here, I can sleep on the floor anyway, after all I still have my bedroll, and… and...” Bilbo stops when he realises his voice has gotten a little shaky, and just finishes off quite lamely with a “Uhm”, dropping his head.

Bofur claps him on his shoulder, and seeks his eyes.

“You can stay as long as you wish, my friend, and no talk of sleeping on the floor, you’ll have my bed and I will find something for myself” he says, with a reassuring nod of his head.

Bilbo tries weakly to protest, but Bofur quickly hushes him.

“Don’t argue now. I’m really happy to have you here. I’ll go make some tea, yeah?” And then he disappears inside the little kitchen near the antechamber, and Bilbo is grateful for the opportunity to compose himself a little.

He looks around and he realises he’s never been inside Bofur’s quarters, taken as he was with tending to Thorin. The antechamber is, as expected, sparsely furnished, but Bilbo can see the seed of the warmth he’s sure it will have when all the work is done. A small plain table is near him on one side, and on the opposite side a blazing hearth. Near the hearth there is a low stool and Bilbo realises that must be where Bofur does his carving in his free time, for discarded curls of wood lie on the floor together with a barely shaped figure and a carving knife. A door opens on the bed chamber, which Bofur left open in the haste of answering the knock at his door, and Bilbo can see a single bed with a little bedside table and a chest for clothes. Another door must lead to the kitchen, for that is where Bofur went.

It’s not long before Bofur is back, two steaming cups of tea in his hands. He sits next to Bilbo at the table, and offers a cup to the hobbit, who takes it with a word of thanks.

“So, what happened?” he asks, wasting no time. The bluntness of dwarves is something Bilbo is not sure he will ever get used to.

“Uhm, well, I...” He immediately stops and takes a deep breath. He starts over again.

“I realised Thorin does not need my care anymore, now that he’s nearly recovered anyway, and I understand he needs his own space and has every right to mourn Fili and Kili in the quiet of his rooms without me shuffling around and fussing. So I decided to move somewhere else and give him his privacy.”

Bofur raises an eyebrow, but he decides not to enquire further. He can see Bilbo is shaken.

“Right. Well, ya can stay as long as you like, no worrying over that now. But if and when you feel like talking about a certain King who might or might not have done something stupid, you know I’m here, right?” he says with a meaningful look.

Bilbo smiles apologetically. It’s not like he hoped to fool Bofur about his evident state of uneasiness, but he did count on his sensitivity. Dwarves may be blunt, but Bofur was always one to know how to measure it out, and he knows when it’s time to let go of things for a while.

“Thank you, Bofur. I will find myself a room in no time, I’m sure. After all, I have no big pretences, not after eight months on the road with you dwarves, I’m sure” Bofur lets out a rumbling chuckle and the corner of Bilbo’s mouth lifts a little.

 

* * *

 

 

Bilbo doesn’t sit idly for the whole day. The first member of the company he looks out for is Balin. As he understands it, Balin is now leading the restoration of Erebor, or at least for what can be done to make the Mountain habitable before winter fully sets in and refurbishments inevitably slow down. In this the support of men and elves is fundamental; they provide the Mountain with supplies for the winter, in anything that goes from food to firewood, and the dwarves pay them with pieces of the treasure, which at the moment is administrated by Gloin. Moreover, they help with rebuilding and repairing the damage caused by the dragon: after all, it is in the interest of everyone that the Mountain shall thrive again and make the whole region a centre of the markets of the North. At first, many of the dwarves (Thorin being one of them) turned up their noses at these arrangements, used as they were at providing for themselves and getting nor wanting help from anybody. But they soon realised that winter is coming fast, and not even with all their tireless labour they can make it alone.

When first Bilbo saw Thorin scrunch his face up in disappointment at the idea of accepting help from the elves, he drew his eyebrows together and asked himself if even after all that happened, all the dead and the destruction, dwarves could still be determined to be so obtuse and hostile towards other races. After the war Bilbo had so keenly tried to avoid, managing only to lose what ghost of a relationship he had with Thorin and earning a banishment in return. Had it all been for nothing? Were they back to elves despising dwarves and dwarves calling them treacherous in return?

But in the end Thorin surprisingly just nodded his head. He wasn’t happy, but at least he was trying to cooperate.

Bilbo finds Balin in the Eastern wing. Because it wasn’t particularly damaged by the dragon (at least not as much as the Western wing), the dwarves are concentrating their efforts on it so that everyone may be housed for the winter.

He’s sure Balin notices something is wrong with him, although he does his best to hide it. Bilbo is infinitely grateful when Balin tells him he will have a room by tomorrow at the latest, after Bilbo says Thorin is practically recovered and does not need to be kept under observation day and night anymore.

“After all, you’re a member of the Company, laddie, and an essential one to that! After all you did for us, a room is the least we can provide you with” Balin says, his fatherly smile kind on his lips.

At that Bilbo’s smile falters a little.

“I wish everyone were of the same mind as you, my friend” The words spill from his lips before he can hold them back. Balin frowns a little.

“Aye, some of us can be stubborn. But give them just a little bit of time, they will see it too.”

Bilbo nods and smiles weakly, knowing in his heart that he probably does not have all that time. After all, Thorin held onto his grudge with Thranduil for over one-hundred-and-sixty years, and he wasn’t even the dragon.

(And it hurts, it hurts to know Thorin still thinks him a traitor, hurts even more after last night)

Having settled the housing issue, Bilbo decides to go to lunch in the common dining room of the upper levels. He’s never had any of the meals with the other dwarves: he always ate in Thorin’s quarters. He’s a little nervous at the thought of facing the other members of the company, but at least Thorin won’t be there: he too takes all his meals in his rooms.

When the company first spot him, there’s a loud cheer from their table, and most of them greet him with a hug or clapping him on the shoulder. Dwalin is not there, being probably on watch at Thorin’s quarters, and to Bilbo it seems there’s a huge void where Fili and Kili used to be. He even misses their voices in the collective cheer, always loudest and most playful.

But the company doesn’t give him time to get sad, because soon enough they’re all questioning him and he’s about to tell them Thorin has recovered well enough, when something on the opposite side of the hall catches his attention. Or better, someone.

The words get stuck in his throat. Walking through the door at the other end of the room is the King under the Mountain, fully clothed in what must be his formal attire, his complexion visibly pale but walking with his head up nevertheless. He’s followed by Dwalin, his custumal grim expression plastered on his face and his axes strapped to his back.

The company must realise Bilbo is looking at something behind them, and they all turn around to see their leader and king finally on his feet again. A cheer even louder than the previous one explodes and everyone is greeting Thorin, who in turns smiles and exchanges head butts and friendly gestures with everyone.

(But Bilbo sees, and he sees that Thorin’s eyes remain icy, so fitting to that unbearable Durin blue, and he _knows_ , he knows that Thorin will never forsake his duty towards his people but he’s not ready for this, he’s not ready for the company of Thorin Oakenshield that doesn’t include his nephews anymore, and yet he’s never going to show it, _never_ )

Thorin never looks at him.

It’s as if Bilbo wasn’t there, and it feels like going back to the beginning of the journey, going back to when Bilbo was only a scared little hobbit and no one thought him worth of a second glance, least of all Thorin.

Bilbo does his best to behave like everything is normal, like he doesn’t care that the person he shared so much intimacy with is ignoring him so easily now. He shakes his head angrily when he realises he’s wrong, because fucking does not mean intimacy, nor does it mean love; it is just the most basal of instincts, and if he’s mistaken it for something other than that, well then that’s his problem.

He manages to eat just as much as he needs to not to catch anybody’s attention; the only positive side of this is that at least now no one is asking him about moving out from Thorin’s quarters, since the king is here and evidently does not need much tending to anymore.

For the first time since Thorin asked him to stay, he realises the king might well enforce his banishment and throw him out of the Mountain. Surely he does not mean to proclaim him a national hero or a dwarf-friend, and this Bilbo knew already, but the knowledge that he could actually decide to exile him washes over him like a cold shower. The truth is Bilbo never wanted to be a dwarf-friend, all he wanted was for the company to value him, and he’s gotten what he wanted, and still has it from most of them, but with Thorin he threw it all away to save them all, and even if he can’t regret it, it pains him to know what he had to sacrifice.

Thank Eru, the meal is over soon, and most of the dwarves scatter to get back to work. Those who are fit for work help with the restoration, and that includes pretty much everyone apart from Ori, whose arm is still healing, slowly but steadily. Thorin goes back to his rooms with Dwalin on toil, and Bilbo takes the opportunity to go back to Bofur’s quarters and compose himself.

 

* * *

 

 

As promised by Balin, by the next day Bilbo has quarters for himself. His rooms are very much like Bofur’s, situated in the upper levels and quite small but with some potential. To be completely honest, he’s just really grateful for a place where he can be alone with his thoughts for a while, where he doesn’t have to force a smile on his face even when he doesn’t feel like doing so.

(He can’t allow himself to break, not when everyone has lost so much, he doesn’t have the right to, he needs to be strong for his friends, for his _family_ , even if it hurts to consider them so)

For a few days Bilbo waits for a royal decree proclaiming his banishment to appear at his door. He does little more than visiting some members of the company now and then, since they are working most of the times. Because his room obviously does not have a window, he takes long walks outside Erebor, on the plane at the feet of the Mountain.

(He could stroll on the battlements, but he knows he would be inevitably drawn to the ramparts, and he can remember all too well what it feels like when your life is literally hanging from the hands of someone else)

The ground is cold and unforgiving beneath his feet, and the plane is rather desolate, with the ruins of the once mighty Dale in sight. The full restoration of Dale will begin in spring, and now men labour to make the city liveable for the oncoming winter.

But the Lonely Mountain is majestic from the vale, beautiful as the day Bilbo first saw it, from the top of the Carrock and with a heart full of relief and hope. So much has changed from that day: the Mountain is reclaimed, Smaug is dead, their quest is fulfilled, but the company has lost two of its youngest members, and Bilbo has lost Thorin’s trust and friendship. All he’s got left is the memory of a night that left in him much more than it was meant to.

Mostly, Bilbo avoids the common dining hall at meal times. He has breakfast early in the morning, and tries to go to the hall when lunch time is over.

In the end, all his cares to avoid Thorin prove useless when he’s summoned to the king’s quarters. At this point, Bilbo is exhausted with the tension accumulated in the days he’s spent waiting for his exile, and wonders if finally the time has come to pack his few belongings.

Thorin is waiting for him in the antechamber, and he’s staring at the fireplace, an arm braced against the mantelpiece. When Bilbo walks in, he doesn’t immediately turn around. Only when Bilbo musters the courage to clear his throat he finally turns to look at him.

The look in his eyes is incomprehensible, and it puts Bilbo in great agitation. It’s never happened that he could read absolutely nothing from Thorin’s eyes, and it scares him more than he would like to admit.

Thorin’s rumbling voice nearly comes as a shock.

“You left my quarters” the tone of his voice is neutral. An observation.

“I did” Bilbo tries to keep his breath steady.

“Without a word” Still an observation.

“Yes” Bilbo holds his breath.

“Why?” Well, now that’s one strange question. Bilbo raises his eyebrows.

“Why? Isn’t that clear? You hardly need me anymore, and what happened the other night… well, I do not think you wish to dwell on that. I know my place, Your Highness” Thorin stiffens a bit at the title, and so does Bilbo. But Thorin’s name burns on his lips. His hopes were raised and crushed in only one night, and he can’t afford to show just how deep Thorin cut.

“And did you know your place when you stole the Arkenstone?” Thorin snorts. Now Bilbo can read his eyes a little more, and there is anger, and resentment. But he’s surprised nevertheless. He knows Thorin hasn’t forgiven him, and he is still so deeply hurt by the way Thorin let the madness ruin their friendship and shatter his heart, but to hear it now is still a hard blow.

“It was different. I was trying to save you. You have seen what war has caused. You knew it a thousand times better than me, even before all of this happened. How many more have to die before you understand this?” Bilbo doesn’t know where he found the courage to utter those words, but he’s tired, he’s been tired for months, tired of dwarves and their love of gold above everything, above _life_ , and look where that took them. He immediately understands it might not have been the wisest thing to say, for Thorin is definitely angry know. He’s clenching his fists as if to control himself.

“You dared steal from me, you betrayed me. Do you know what is the punishment for treason against the King, burglar?” Thorin’s voice is thunderous.

Bilbo throws his hands in the air, exasperated. As if he had not felt on his skin the consequences of what he’d done that night.

“We both know that back then to me you were no King, but a friend! A friend who was about to throw his own life away. I betrayed your trust solely for your sake, and you tried to kill me in return. And nearly succeeded.” Bilbo averts his eyes. That memory is painful, it is inked in his brain and it won’t wash away. He hates himself for the way he’s letting Thorin hurt him once again.

(Look at him, hoping, again, that this dwarf King might be worth trusting, might be worth following, might be worth loving. It’s his eternal weakness, hoping, hoping against all odds)

Thorin falls silent. It’s several moments before he speaks again, and what he says astonishes Bilbo.

“And yet I did not”

Bilbo deflates. He doesn’t know what to say anymore. He wishes dwarves were less complicated, less proud. He is so tired.

“Why did you ask me to stay, Thorin? If you still consider me a traitor, if to you our friendship meant nothing, then why did you call me on your death bed?”

Now it is Thorin’s turn to look away, and Bilbo can see it is because he’s ashamed.

“I did not want to die alone” Bilbo sighs.

“Then why not call Balin, or Dwalin? Why me?”

Thorin remains silent. His eyes are burning in Bilbo’s again, but he seems determined not to give an answer.

(It could be only him, only him, without his nephews, he was all there was left, a traitor burglar but him nevertheless)

But Bilbo is determined to get at least some answer.

“I will ask you another question then” He steps closer to Thorin. “Why did you take me in your bed, knowing perfectly you were going to hurt me? Was it your personal idea of punishment? Are you finally going to enforce your banishment now that you have taken this from me too?” He hates to expose himself so much, but this might be the last time he talks to Thorin and he needs to say everything.

Thorin is taken aback but this time he answers quickly.

“No. All I was seeking was pleasure. On both parts”

(He was seeking solace, he was seeking refuge, from himself and all the death he’s caused, from his haunted dreams and shattered soul, and it counts as little that as soon as he was back it was all still there waiting for him)

Bilbo lets out a bitter laugh.

“In fact, I quite enjoyed it. And I would have it again” Thorin has inched closer. His eyes now are burning in Bilbo’s, thunder and flame and Bilbo is dumbstruck, petrified and inevitably gravitating towards Thorin.

(He’s a black hole, and not even light escapes him, so dark and unknown but it can’t be resisted, it just can’t)

Bilbo realises there is still so much he could lose, that Thorin can hurt him in a billion more ways, but when he’s confronted with this, with this obstinate and proud and angry dwarf king who will crush under his boot everything on his wake, he knows now he won’t ever say no.

That is why he responds fiercely when Thorin suddenly takes hold of his waist and starts kissing his neck vehemently. Bilbo tangles his fingers in Thorin’s hair, arching his back towards the demanding King.

The memories of that damned night are back like a tidal wave, and suddenly the echo of Thorin’s hands is not just an echo anymore, his hands are so very real, and warm, and Bilbo melts under them, despite himself, despite all the hurt and resentment he feels for this dwarf, despite all that’s passed between them.

(Will it ever be the same with anyone else? He’s afraid of the answer)

The truth is that when their skins meet, when they merge, there is nothing that could possibly matter more. There will be consequences, there are always consequences, but for now it’s just them, it’s a dwarf King trying to bury his faults in someone else’s body, it’s a hobbit burglar basking in those hopes he wishes he were able to give up, but ultimately they are just two broken creatures desperately trying to patch up what’s left of themselves, together, skin on skin, and yet hundreds of miles apart from each other.

It take seconds for them to end up on the King’s bed, Thorin having lifted Bilbo not without a small wince from his old injuries and having walked to the bedroom, impetuously kicking the door open.

It’s all too easy for Bilbo to shut his brain and abandon himself to pleasure when Thorin’s hands are everywhere, peeling layers of clothes off him with undeniable grace, kissing every inch of skin he can reach. His lips are fire through Bilbo’s veins, and a wicked grin paints the dwarf’s face when he uncovers the evident arousal of the hobbit under him.

“Such smooth skin…” Thorin mutters, his voice like velvet brushing Bilbo’s skin, and the hobbit wriggles his hips impatiently, craving touch and friction and anything he can get.

He’s astonished when Thorin bows down and suddenly his lips are grazing the tip of his cock. A pink tongue darts out to collect a bead of fluid that just leaked out in response to what he just did, and he hums approvingly. The drift of hot air on his already flushed flesh makes Bilbo squirm, and he grabs the sheets beneath him in a desperate attempt to keep his hips still.

But Thorin seems to finally resolve himself and suddenly he grabs Bilbo’s ass with both hands and lifts him up towards his mouth, and in a second he’s slipped Bilbo’s cock past his own lips and is now sucking vehemently. It’s all so abrupt that Bilbo’s breath is cut off from his lungs, and he pants wildly. Thorin is clearly encouraging him to buck his hips, and Bilbo can’t resist anymore. He finds himself thrusting in that engulfing heat, while Thorin synchronises his sucking motion with Bilbo’s pace.

Just when he thinks he’s about to spill his seed down a King’s throat (mind blowing thought at that), Thorin lets go of him and raises his head, and Bilbo blinks indignantly, disappointed.

“You can’t cum yet, burglar. But later…” He says, and eyebrow raised and his tongue licking a residue of fluid on his lip. The sight is absolutely glorious and nearly does the job for Bilbo, who is now trashing on the bed.

With few fluid moves Thorin has removed his clothes, and his hard cock waves in front of Bilbo in a very inviting fashion, and Bilbo can’t help but whisper: “Oh sweet Yavanna”.

Thorin stretches towards a bedside table and swiftly produces what is undoubtedly a vial of oil, and Bilbo fleetingly wonders if he’s planned this. However he’s not coherent enough to dwell on it any further, especially when Thorin is generously coating his fingers in oil. He can already feel his own hole clenching in anticipation, and he instantly knows he is not going to last long at all.

The first finger slips in easily, and Bilbo immediately pushes back against it. Thorin must understand he’s beyond caring, and ever gentle but firm, slips in another finger, leaving Bilbo breathless. The dwarf’s pupils are blown out and he watches raptly as his fingers disappear inside the hobbit’s body.

“You keep stealing from me, burglar” he whispers, and Bilbo wants to ask what he means, but he doesn’t have time to do so, for Thorin quickly pushes in another finger, and words have all but abandoned him.

To Bilbo it seems interminable, but it’s but a few minutes before Thorin’s fingers abandon him, promptly replaced by the tip of his cock, pushing demandingly against his hole. If Bilbo weren’t too occupied trying to keep his mind together, he would probably notice that Thorin’s chest is heaving, his muscles twitching and his cock leaking heavily.

He desperately tries to control himself, but the hobbit beneath him is so warm and real and alive and pushing wildly back against him, and in the end he can’t help but slipping his cock inside all at once with a grunt. He raises his head, meaning to apologise, but Bilbo is shaking his head, a small smile on his face, and in that very second Thorin is utterly at loss, encircled by heat but feeling cold deep inside, frozen even

(But there is something, something strange, a spark maybe, like a small fluctuation. But it’s only a second, only a twinkle, and it’s gone before he can blink)

and he’s pushing, thrusting forward to suffocate it all, to feel pleasure when he’s afraid he can’t feel anything.

Bilbo is not smiling anymore: his expression borders ecstatic, and for a second he’s feeling less lonely, less small in this huge world where he’s just a passing grain, but now, in this very moment he’s beyond, he’s floating somewhere among the furthest of starts.

They’ll never admit it, but as their bodies move together, intertwined and mingled, they’re both looking for shelter, for safety, and they think they’re so far that they would never imagine to find it, going on restlessly, in an unbearable quest for something they don’t want to name and that is, ultimately, merely redemption.

Thorin keeps thrusting, hard, unforgiving, lost in the heat and forgetful of everything that is not the body under him, and those pink hard nipples and that hairless soft skin and those flushed dry lips. When Bilbo tries to reach out for his own cock, on the brim of his climax but unable to reach it, Thorin promptly catches his moving hands and pins them down in place. His pace becomes irregular, his thrusts erratic, and suddenly he’s spurting his seed inside Bilbo, filling him in hot waves and basking in bliss at the thought that it’s his seed marking the burglar, and nobody else’s.

But he doesn’t take any time to recover because, true to his words, he slips his cock out and once again bends down to take Bilbo’s cock in his mouth, licking it and pushing it down his throat as deep as possible.

That’s ultimately too much for poor Bilbo, who comes with a cry, an unstoppable orgasm crushing him and his vision going completely blank. Thorin keeps sucking all the time, swallowing every single drop of cum that lands on his tongue, his mind a crumbling mess.

When finally the King raises his head once more, the only thing Bilbo wants is to taste his own release on Thorin’s lips, to worship that mouth that just worshipped his body. Thorin’s eyes are burning in his, painfully blue and still burning, and for a moment Bilbo believes he’s going to kiss him.

But it’s only a moment, because slowly but inexorably Thorin untangles himself from Bilbo’s legs and he gets up from the bed. Bilbo weakly registers the glory of his shaped naked body as he walks towards the bathroom, and his heart clenches painfully at what he knows will never be his and yet he craves in the depths of his soul.

Thorin is back moments later with a damp towel, which he uses to clean Bilbo gently. Bilbo is mesmerized, but the King’s touch now burns on his skin and his vision is clouded by unshed tears.

Quick as he came, Thorin is shortly done, and walking back towards the bathroom.

Bilbo knows he’s not coming back.

 

(In the bathroom, behind closed doors, Thorin presses his forehead against the cold mirror, bracing himself against the stone sink.

Cold.

Alone.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I am sorry it took me this long. I went home, and didn't have my laptop for nearly ten days. But I'm back on track now.  
> Again, I put all myself in this. Thanks to everybody who read, feedback is always very much appreciated.  
> UnheardMelody


	4. Chapter 4

They fuck so many times that Bilbo loses count.

The first time Thorin comes to Bilbo’s quarters, it is the middle of the night and he is having trouble sleeping. Thorin must have been having trouble too, because he is very clearly awake when he knocks on Bilbo’s door, gently but firmly enough for Bilbo to hear him clearly and jump like a spring in his bed. He definitely does not expect to see the King under the Mountain at his door, but he is there nevertheless, and as soon as Bilbo sees him he knows what he’s here for.

He’s in that state in the middle between sleep and wake in which lucid realisations strike the mind like lightning bolt, and in a flash he knows all Thorin wants is his body. He doesn’t want to argue with him, accuse him of any more crimes against the crown; in fact he does not want to talk to him at all, nor seek to mend their friendship or whatever shattered twisted fraction is left of it. All he needs (or he thinks he needs) is to forget himself inside someone else, to bury his poisonous thoughts in pleasure and quench his grief with the illusion of not being alone.

It is a mind-blowing realisation and Bilbo is suddenly angry with himself for not acknowledging this before. After all, it explains many things: his silence, his anger and his tension, that first night in his quarters that was just the outburst of everything Thorin had been keeping inside, and that he’d tried to pour out, to get rid of by drowning it in pleasure.

For this reason, it does not come as a surprise when Thorin goes straight to the point.

“Do you know why I’m here?” He asks, his gruff voice spreading in the small antechamber. Oddly, Bilbo notices how the fur of Thorin’s collar waves slightly under his breath. He doesn’t trust his voice enough to do more than just nod.

“And what is your decision? Will you abandon yourself to pleasure or will you deny me the privilege of your skin?” Bilbo wishes he abandoned his formal tone, his stupid poetry and just told him he wants to _fuck_ him.

“I will have you” he says in the end, and he is not even sure why he is accepting this mad thing going on between them, even when he knows he’s no more than an object in the hands of a greedy and changeable King. Maybe it is because he thinks that by now he can bear it, that his heart carries so many scars that one more won’t make a difference. Maybe it’s because he knows he lost Thorin, he knows he lost him the night he stole the Arkenstone, and he’d always known what it would cost him, but he also knew that if the price for Thorin’s life was his friendship, then he would gladly pay it. Nevertheless, he lost him, and he knows this is the only way he can have him. Or maybe, in the end, if this is the only way he can help Thorin find some peace, than he’ll do it, no matter the consequences, because let’s face it, when Thorin Oakenshield was involved, Bilbo Baggins never for one minute thought about his own safety.

(Maybe this is why Thorin actually succeeded in reclaiming a mountain with twelve dwarves and a hobbit. Is this the loyalty he inspires in people? Bilbo wonders)

It doesn’t escape either of them that Bilbo said “I will have you”, as if he’ll have not only Thorin’s body, but all that will come with it, as if saying “You’re not alone”; but they both decide to ignore it, to store it in a drawer that might or might not be opened later on, when passion is spent and bones are empty of warmth, when eyes stare wide at the ceiling and tears well up on their fingertips.

That’s how it starts, their string of clandestine encounters.

As the restoration of Erebor proceeds at full speed now, Thorin has taken up his position of King again, actively leading the works if not taking part in them in order not to compromise his recovery. Oin has firmly forbidden any type of hard work. Bilbo frowns thinking about the kind of “physical exercise” Thorin gets up to in bed.

Nevertheless, Thorin holds council with Dain and his advisors more often than not. Hot topics in the council include the agreements taken with men, the difficult relations with the Woodland Realm and the most urgent repairs that need to be carried out in the Mountain. Needless to say, there is a huge amount of work to do, although by now all the dwarves of Dain’s host and the company have been provided with accommodation, and no one is sleeping in tents anymore. The next big step is to bring running water back inside the Mountain, as well as storing provisions for the winter.

Cooperation with men and elves goes on with Thorin as it had been decided under Dain’s rule. Thorin might not like elves any more than he used to, nor men for that matter, but he seems convinced of the fairness of paying them for their honest work and the help they are giving. As soon as he’s been able to, he’s confirmed Gloin’s position as Master of the Treasure and Royal Accountant, trusting no one else better to devise the rightful pay for everyone and keep count of the shares of the company in the treasure.

As for Thorin himself, he pointedly avoids the treasure hall as much as he can. Somehow, Bilbo understands this very well. The treasure was almost Thorin’s tomb, and ultimately it was his nephews’. Bilbo doesn’t want to have anything to do with it either. Gandalf, Elrond, Bard, they were all right: the gold in Erebor is cursed, and it cannot bring any joy to anyone. Not to Bilbo. Not to Thorin.

As a result of all of Thorin’s commitments, Bilbo sees very little of him in the presence of others. While most of the dwarves reunite in the common dining hall for the meals, Thorin’s council often protracts through lunch and past dinner time, so that the King has his meals where and when the situation permits it. Frankly, Bilbo is relieved he does not have to face Thorin in plain daylight. The main reason is that the King mostly ignores him in public. He hardly ever says more than a greeting, and he never seeks to hold a conversation with him. Most of the times, Bilbo ends up trying to enthusiastically start talking with someone else, be it loud Bofur or shy Ori. But each time he has to shove a thick lump down his throat, and do his best to cover up the fact that he feels wounded, more wounded than he ever felt even at the beginning, when Thorin thought him a worthless and fearful commoner.

And when the night comes, and Thorin with it, Bilbo hates himself for never asking for an explanation, for never demanding Thorin once and for all decided what it is he wants from him, for not being able to draw a line, to set a limit to this poisonous relationship that gnaws at his soul, corrupts his mind and tears him apart from the inside.

Most of the times, Thorin shows up at Bilbo’s door in the dead of the night. However, sometimes Bilbo finds himself hastily pulled in the strangest places, Thorin’s thunderous mouth all over his body. A side room near the council hall, a storage down in the forges, even the kitchens pantry once.

It is all so overwhelming, and Bilbo can explain so little of it, that at first he lets himself be transported. Every time the rush takes hold of him and blood transforms into fire in his veins, there is that glorious moment in which he believes this is all he needs. When Thorin’s arms close around him, when his massive chest presses against his, when his cock slides warmly and impatiently inside of him, he believes he can reach for the sky from a reality where he is so deeply anchored to the ground, where he’s weighted down by countless griefs and nightmares. It matters little that it’s never long before he’s left emptied of everything, alone in a cold room or in a cold bed, so abruptly pulled to the ground by gravity, and all he would like to do is scream, scream until his voice mingles with the endless echo of a thousand voices embedded in the stones of a Kingdom that has seen so much death and suffering, and is once again witness of creatures who cannot patch up their lives anymore, and yet keep getting up and walking on.

Needless to say, those are the worst moments for Bilbo, for there is no true way he can push these sick feelings out of his body. There is no one he can talk to: he would never tell any of the dwarves their King fucks their burglar, destroying him little by little, and Gandalf left right after the battle, claiming urgent business in Lorien (Bilbo suspects he won’t see him for another fifty years or so). He is alone even surrounded by his friends, and the realisation saddens him all the more.

But what takes all hope from him is the fact that Thorin never kisses him. Not once, not even by mistake, not even in the frenzy of a climax, has he laid his lips on Bilbo’s. And Bilbo has tried, at times, when he could muster the courage, to take Thorin’s face between his hands, to force him to look at him, really look, in the pale candlelight; but every time Thorin simply covers Bilbo’s hands with his, and slowly slides them down, his touch gentle but unyielding, diverting Bilbo’s attention elsewhere. And in the end, Bilbo stops trying.

He is not even sure what it is that makes him so sad about not kissing, about skipping the most fundamental of romantic interactions to go straight to the coupling. Maybe it is because it makes him feel used, like an object, good enough for some fun, but not even nearly important enough to show him some affection.

It is maddening and, thinking about it, incomprehensible, that he, in contrast, shall yearn even more for Thorin’s affection, for something he is so obviously not willing to give, for the very thing he might never have. He will never admit it aloud, but he knows, deep in his heart, all he wants is for Thorin to apologise, to say that he still values his friendship and is grateful for Bilbo’s attempts at helping him reclaim his homeland, though poorly they might have ended.

Instead, they never even talk properly. They don’t talk about each other’s day, about the small accomplishments and little satisfactions, nor about the great sorrows they still bring upon their shoulders, and oh, how lighter they could prove, if only they were willing to share them.

* * *

 

Thorin Oakenshield has always been a dwarf to fulfil his duties. He’s never shun away from work, be it smiting on an anvil until he could not feel his arms anymore so that he could feed his family, or holding council to decide upon the fate of his people, and he is definitely not starting now.

Since he’s been able to get up from bed, he’s been working to mend and strengthen the position of Erebor, and to supervise the restoration of the Mountain. More often than not, his hands itch, striving to help, to do some honest and tiring work and feel truly useful again.

However, it’s not the same anymore. As always, his main concern are his people, and yet he just can’t feel as committed anymore. Somehow, when Fili and Kili’s lives were lost, Thorin’s purpose was too. Somewhere among all the steel and the clanging of swords and the blood, the reclamation of Erebor has stopped making sense in Thorin’s heart. All he’s ever wanted was to give his people a home, their real home, not the temporary accommodation they had in the Blue Mountains; and he wanted his family to reclaim what was rightfully theirs, but more importantly he wanted Fili and Kili to have the home they were born for, and that they had never known. And now, they will never know it.

The truth is that Thorin knows his nephews were sacrificed to Erebor, and to some accursed treasure. He knows _he_ was the one who sacrificed them, that it was his choice and only his, and that now he is not so sure he would make that decision again. He wouldn’t give back Erebor, he couldn’t, not when his people finally have a home and he owes them no less as their King; but there will always be a part of him that will never forgive him for sacrificing the two most important people in his life to a dream. The fact is that in his heart, they had always had to fight for their place with Thorin’s people, and he had always known he could not devote himself fully to his family, for he was also King, and that meant putting his dwarves first.

In the end, what really matters is that in Thorin’s heart Erebor will never be worth the lives of his nephews. But nothing will bring them back; Thorin has no heirs of his own, and at the end of the day, he is glad of it. If the throne can’t be Fili’s or Kili’s, then let his accursed madness die with him, and hope Dain’s line will be purer and stronger.

The loss of his nephews is so unbearable that Thorin never has peace, nor does he think he deserves it. He will bear in his soul the consequences of his actions forever, and suffer them every day. He knows this is little punishment for the destruction he brought upon his own family, and yet his heart yearns but for a little comfort, it aches for temporary relief from all the grief and pain it bears every day.

Of course, that is were the Halfling comes in.

To Thorin, Bilbo Baggins in an utter mystery. And not a mystery in himself, for he tends to wear his heart on his sleeve, when he’s not paying too much attention, although Thorin has seen him close up little by little, like a flower withdrawing in itself for the night, and he knows it is entirely his fault. But Bilbo is a mystery in the way he attracts Thorin to himself, causing him to gravitate around him as if pulled by gravity. It is maddening how an apparently so simple creature can overthrow Thorin’s mind with so little effort. However, Thorin has learnt well that Bilbo Baggins is all but a simple creature; now he knows well there is much more to the hobbit than what meets the eye, and although he would never admit it, he is amazed by him more often than not.

Moreover, he is confused and a little annoyed at the fact that he can’t bring himself to hate him. Thorin has always been very good at holding on to a grudge; it is in his nature, and he has never been one to forget easily, let alone forgive. And by stealing the Arkenstone, the jewel that not only he desired with all his heart (and Bilbo knew this full well), but would also bestow upon him the right to rule the united army of the dwarves, Bilbo had earned himself Thorin’s enmity. And yet, even in the deepest abysses of the madness, the voice of the hobbit was something he could always hear most clearly. In the end, on the floor of the Gallery of the Kings overflowing with gold, of all voices in his head Bilbo’s had been the last one, and it had snapped something fundamental in his mind.

Thorin Oakenshield is not ready to admit it, and Mahal knows if he ever will be, but Bilbo Baggins saved him in more ways than just throwing himself between Thorin and an orc.

Thorin has found he cannot explain the way he is drawn to the hobbit. At first, he has tried to convince himself he did not want to die alone. But as Bilbo has readily pointed out, he could have chosen one of his oldest friends, rather than a hobbit he had just called traitor. And afterwards, when he woke up to see that despite the war, despite Thorin’s anger, despite all the death, Bilbo had stayed by his side, for a fleeting moment he felt amazement in his heart and a little warmth, like the small flame of a candle bent by the wind, and for the smallest of seconds the flame had managed to eat away a tiny bit of the huge void he had in his heart.

Later on, he refused to dwell upon this thought. However, an attentive observer might have seen the link between that first awakening and the night of lust and passion that came not long after. For from that night on, Thorin sought to feel that little warmth again, unconsciously hoping to turn the small candle into a bonfire. In the end, the deepest desire of his heart is that of a warmer bed, even though he doesn’t seem to understand that a bed can be just as cold when two people share it, if they share no more than sheets and a mattress.

Although very little of this is clear in his mind, something he knows and that he does not dare explain the hobbit is that their encounters are more frequent when something or someone reminds him too strongly of Fili and Kili.

(In those moments, the void gnaws at his soul and the urge to fill it is too great, although desperate and hopeless)

The hobbit however never ceases to surprise him. Never would Thorin have thought that the desperate request of a night blurred by nightmares and terror would have been accepted nearly without hesitation by Bilbo. And even blinded by grief and lust and pleasure he had noticed the careless way Bilbo had given himself to him, as if he had nothing to lose, as if that night was the last chance he had and none would ever come by again.

Somewhere at the back of his mind Thorin knows he is being unfair to him, taking what the hobbit doesn’t seem to be able to refuse him, and yet he just can’t deny his shattered soul the illusion have some pieces of it fitted together again, even if only for a brief moment. It is far more than just physical pleasure, and yet Thorin seems determined to pass the message on to his head and to Bilbo that it is only that, only a distraction in the dull routine of a Lonely Mountain emptied of the only ones who truly counted.

(How long is that farce destined to last? To give it up would mean to finally accept the crudeness of his loneliness, and Thorin is not ready for that)

But at some point, Thorin is not sure when, something started to change. And it wouldn’t even be noticeable if it weren’t for the fact that the King has Bilbo watched at times. Since he’s learned, by chance, that the hobbit is used to take long walks outside the gates of Erebor, he’s arranged for a guard to keep an eye on him from a distance. It is curious, because Thorin never asks Bilbo about his day, nor does he take interest in what he does, but he feels compelled to know he’s safe. He is not asking himself the right question, but instead he is simply following an instinct that comes from deeper within him than he’s willing to admit.

Maybe it is because, in the end, he wasn’t able to protect those he loved the most.

* * *

Bilbo stares at the poor choice of clothes he has in the chest at the feet of his bed. In Lake Town he had been able to purchase a few pieces, but most of them were ill-fitting: either children’s clothes or adults’ garments hastily adapted to his small figure, but never really suiting him.

In the end, he decides to go for what survived best from the journey: a pair of breeches, a shirt and a waistcoat he’s done his best to mend with what little material he has here. When he looks into the mirror, he finds a little hobbit missing the typical roundness around his middle, his raiment a little tattered but clean and in order; and after all, it’s fitting, because this is how Fili and Kili knew him, always on the run and too preoccupied with his life to care about his clothes.

The day of the princes’ funeral has finally come, and no dwarf in the Mountain is working. Everyone is going to pay homage in the ceremony that will be celebrated in the royal burial chambers in the depths of the Mountain.

Two months have now gone by from what will be remembered as the Battle of the Five Armies; the plain at the feet of Erebor bears no memory of the bloodshed of all races, but the stench of blood and the clang of swords are etched in the minds of all, and will never leave again.

Bilbo takes a deep breath, observing the pale face in the mirror. His appearance is not benefitting from his lack of sleep, and some days he regrets his peaceful days in the Shire, when he had yet to know blood and battle, and he wishes he could go back to when he was free, ignorant of what it means to give yourself to somebody who will never give you back.

When he finds Bofur waiting outside of his door, a pale reflection of his usual grin painted upon his face, he sighs in relief. He is glad to have a friend by his side in a Mountain far too big for a lonely hobbit.

“Come on, my friend, let’s go” Bofur says, and he wraps and arm around Bilbo’s shoulders, and Bilbo is grateful for it, for the warmth dwarves can unexpectedly show their friends. He never ceases to be amazed at how dear dwarves hold their friends once they are close enough; it is not easy to get to that point, and Bilbo knows it well, but once you have, there is no going back. Most of the members of the Company have now gone back to treating him as one of them, even the ones who least approved of the Arkenstone business. Even Dwalin, grim as ever, treats him as a companion again, and Bilbo suspects it has something to do with the way he took care of Thorin after he was injured. In Dwalin’s head, Bilbo’s faults cannot be forgotten, for it is not in the nature of dwarves to forget so easily, but the fact that Bilbo showed nothing but good faith towards his King somehow has him more willing to recognise his merits as well.

When Bilbo and Bofur finally make it to Fili and Kili’s designated burial chamber, they take place with the rest of the company at the front of the rows of dwarves from Dain’s host.

The ceremony is a simple thing. Because it is the heirs of the King that are being celebrated, the King himself is expected to be the first one to pay homage. Bilbo can see him stand right in front of the grave, unbetraying of any emotion except for the tension in his stiff shoulders. In his arms, a bow and two short swords.

When the two princes were buried, Thorin was still deep in the abysses of the fever. For this reason it was Balin that suggested the two princes be buried together, in one large grave. In the end, they were the two halves of a whole, and as they had lived together, together they had died. Bilbo knows Thorin approves of this when he nods absentmindedly at the tomb.

The silence is complete when Thorin deposits the twin swords on the left of the great grave, but pointing towards the centre. The same he does with the bow on the right side, and now the weapons are joined over the engraved coat-of-arms of the line of Durin.

(Time has come for the bow and swords to rest, never to be wielded again, until their masters are recalled from the Halls to fight alongside Durin again)

Then Thorin bows, kneeling right at the centre of the sepulchre and resting his forehead against the base of the altar where Fili and Kili’s names are engraved. He murmurs words no one is able to hear and the he rises again, to circle the grave and stand behind it, facing the dwarves. He wears no crown, and Bilbo knows now he presents himself in front of his nephews not as their King, but as their faulty father.

He does not say a word to his audience.

Next to pay tribute is Dain, who instead chooses to speak.

“Today we celebrate the lives of our Princes Fili and Kili of the line of Durin, and their sacrifice for their homeland. We celebrate their noble quest and unwavering courage, and pray Mahal father of all dwarves to welcome them by his side until the world is renewed. May their memory never fade!” At these last words, all the dwarves explode in a roar, repeating: “May their memory never fade!”

The official part of the ceremony is now concluded, and whoever is willing to may pay homage to the princes. The company is the first, and Bilbo cannot hold back his tears. He traces the name of his friends engraved in the stone with a trembling hand, his head bowed and his eyes shut, and for a moment he hears the echo of a bright twin laughs dissolving in the depths of the Mountain. His voice is trapped in his throat and there is nothing he can say, nothing that can truly express his sorrow, not now, not among those who grieve Fili and Kili as their sons, those who saw them be born and grow up and should not have seen them die.

He can feel the weight for Thorin’s gaze upon him as he stands in front of the grave. And as he moves towards the back to let others pay their tributes, it comes to him that in another universe, another grave stands unyielding in the burial chamber, and Thorin was lost to battle together with his nephews. In this other universe, Bilbo would be back in the Shire already, empty inside, ears straining to hear returning feet and voices at the door. The thought is unbearable, and he quickly shakes it off. Thorin might be broken, and Eru knows whether he’ll ever be whole again, and he might be secretive and blind and uncaring of Bilbo’s feelings, but at least he is alive, at least he is getting another chance at life, a chance his nephews will never have again.

The dwarves from the company stoically try to maintain some self-control: Dwalin is breathing rapidly, eyes blinking furiously with tears he is not willing to shed, and Mahal knows he feels nearly as guilty as Thorin; Balin shakes his head, remembering of how he used to scold the young princes to get them to pay attention in their lessons, and many times failing completely. The ‘Ri brothers hold each other, with Ori sniffing loudly and remembering his two boisterous friends and all the times he’d wished he could be that brave and that careless. Oin and Gloin openly weep for their kin, while Bofur, Bombur and Bifur all bow deeply in front of the grave, Bofur murmuring a “Goodbye lads, don’t go causing too much trouble in the Halls, yeah?” with a sad smile on his lips.

As the other dwarves, one by one, bow in front of the tomb, and then slowly start flowing out of the chamber, like life leaving an empty shell for one last time, Thorin’s eyes remain fixed on the point where Fili’s swords and Kili’s bow join, a silent guardian that stands watch of an abandoned fortress.

* * *

 

That night, when Bilbo hears Thorin’s knock on his door, he does not expect what is going to happen.

As Bilbo shows him in, Thorin doesn’t immediately get down to business as he’s been used to these past weeks. He just stands in the middle of the antechamber, arms hanging motionless at his sides, and his piercing blue eyes lost in the fireplace in front of him.

Bilbo frowns, undecided about what might be the best thing to do. In the end, he just sighs and resolves to stepping close to the King and taking one large hand in his. After all, the funerary ceremony was trying for everyone. And in this moment, with this battered King in front of him, he decides to push aside all the resentment and the burning ache in his heart, in favour of trying to give Thorin a little comfort, to mend the wounds that run deep in his soul or at least to stop them from bleeding so profusely.

But something immediately catches his attention, for Thorin’s hand is dripping blood onto the floor, and the knuckles are bruised and tattered. On the palm and fingers, countless small cuts. Bilbo raises his head and looks at Thorin’s face.

“Oh, Thorin” is all he can say, soft fingers leaving butterfly touches on each small wound.

Thorin turns to look at him.

“I was engraving the tomb earlier” he simply says, and omits to say he also punched a wall in a particular outburst of rage.

(Stonework seemed like a good way to tribute the memory of his nephews, and the words he engraved were words he needed to say)

Bilbo tells him to wait for him there, as he scurries away to his room where he keeps he remains of his pack, including some bandages and an ointment for wounds Oin gave him ages ago during the journey.

When he comes back, he finds Thorin has accommodated himself on the floor in front of the fireplace.

( _The light in my eyes will forever be buried with you_ )

The hobbit slides a little stool close to the King and sits down, gently taking Thorin’s hands and cleaning the cuts and bruises with the ointment before bandaging them.

(Where are _his_ tears? He’s seen countless dwarves weeping today, and yet his eyes are dry, unblinking and unmoving, the sorrow too deep even to be shared)

When Bilbo is done taking care of the King’s hands, Thorin slowly rests his head on his lap, as if he’s giving Bilbo the time to refuse his touch. Bilbo’s heart is in flames, as he realises what desperation shines through Thorin’s actions, how deep are the roots of his loneliness.

(In the end, they’re both alone, alone in this world too big for both of them, and maybe, just maybe, now their hands are stretching towards each other, towards the only source of warmth they could truly find)

Bilbo not only lets Thorin’s head weigh on his lap, but he starts running his fingers through the dwarf’s silky mane, tentatively at first. When the King does not object, and instead seems to relax under the touch, Bilbo lets his strokes become longer and deeper. He cannot know it, but a dwarf’s hair is very personal and important, and his simple and spontaneous gesture is for dwarves more intimate than a kiss.

Thorin knows all this very well, and yet he cannot subtract himself from the soothing motion of small fingers on his scalp and all he can think is that if his destiny is to be at the mercy of this hobbit, then be it.

The only sound in the room is the cracking of the wood in the fireplace, and Bilbo starts a little when Thorin starts speaking.

“When Fili was only six, and Kili barely a babe in his mother’s arms, my sister’s husband, Vili, was fatally wounded by a warg during a hunt. The winter had not been merciful that year, and it had been snowing, and the solitary warg had come down from the mountain in search for food. We had been having trouble keeping our families fed, and we decided to brave the snow to hopefully be able to bring some meat home. But we were not the only ones, and when the warg attacked, Vili was the first in line. I held him as his life bled out on the snow, and promised him I would take care of his sons for him, like a father would. What father was I for them, Bilbo? What sort of father sacrifices his sons for a Mountain?” Throughout all his speech, Thorin’s voice is rough with grief, but his eyes remain stubbornly dry. The motion of Bilbo’s hands doesn’t cease for a moment.

“All these years you were their father, Thorin. All you wanted was give them the home they had never had their chance to know and that was their birthright. They grew up to be fine lads. You did a magnificent job with them” he replies, not quite sure how to handle the topic. He knows it is very important that Thorin is finally sharing his grief, but he also knows he could retreat in himself any moment.

“Aye, fine lads they were. And now they will never have the chance to know their true home” Thorin’s voice is heavy with guilt, it dribbles down his chin as he speaks, and Bilbo is not sure he can convince him it is not his fault. Because somewhere, deep inside him, a part of his heart thinks they were the price Thorin had to pay for his kingdom. However, he knows their sacrifice was voluntary, and he chooses to try and make Thorin understand this.

“You know, during the journey I could always hear someone point out how important your ancestral home was to you. I perfectly understand that your aim was always to give your people a home, the real home that they deserved and not the wandering life they had been forced to endure. But for my part, I found that home is not always a place. Home is more often than not the people who inhabit that place, and you and your sister were Fili and Kili’s home. It did not matter that you did not live in a splendid palace rich with gold and gems in depths of your own mountain: they had someone who loved them and cherished them throughout all their lives, and this means they had a home. And in the end, they must have loved you so much for all you gave them, for they stood to protect you, and to honour the values that you had taught them. They were perfectly aware of what they were going to face, nevermind that they had not seen real battle; it was about protecting what they loved and fulfil their duty towards their people, just like you did.” In his little speech, Bilbo’s cheeks have grown a bit flustered, and he stops to take a breath.

It is a long time before Thorin speaks again, and Bilbo wonders if he might have fallen asleep. But in the end a reply comes.

“I shouldn’t have let them” he says, and his voice is so small and sad it reminds Bilbo of a child who wishes to change the past, for he is still to learn that what is done cannot be undone.

“Oh, Thorin, it wasn’t your choice to make. You brought them up to be brave and honourable, and you should be proud that in the end that is what they chose: to be brave enough to face the orcs that had nearly destroyed their family, and to honour the promise they had made to their people by joining your quest.” Bilbo retorts, and the words spill freely from his lips for he believes in them, he believes Fili and Kili’s choice was ultimately theirs and that they should not be pitied for it, but admired.

He is not sure it can truly help Thorin, to tell him his nephews chose to sacrifice themselves for him and for the kingdom he has taught them to serve, but it is all he can offer him with honesty at this very moment.

Thorin’s voice is even smaller when he express his most tearing doubt.

“I am not so sure this, Erebor, was worth it anymore”

(He was always ready to sacrifice his own life for the reclamation of Erebor, but his nephews’? He had no idea what he was gambling with)

“Well, that is not upon me to judge. But all the dwarves who will come here from the Blue Mountains in spring, all those who were forced to wander throughout their lives and will finally be able to settle in a Mountain of their home, all those people have a home now. And they have you to thank you for it. Your loss is cruel, but yours is the royal line, and this is not only a privilege, but it also entails great responsibility and suffering. It is the curse and blessing of your line, leading your people in times of peace and in times of trouble.” If someone had told Bilbo one day he was going to be the one to remind Thorin what it meant to be an heir of Durin, he would have laughed. But Thorin needs to see the price he paid is repaid a thousand times to his people, even if it still means great loss on his part.

“You loved them. I saw you, weeping for them, at the funeral. But I can’t shed a single tear. Why I, who loved them the most in this world, cannot mourn my sons, not even in the privacy of my rooms?” Thorin asks, feeling once again at fault.

(Maybe he’s just not reached the bottom of his sorrow yet, maybe there is a part of him that still refuses to accept and always will)

Bilbo avoids saying that Thorin did cry for them, that tears rolled silently down his cheeks every night in his sleep, and that Bilbo was always there to join him.

“The moment will come when you finally weep for them. But even if it does not, it won’t mean you did not love them enough to mourn them. I know you loved them, we all know, and somewhere in your heart you know too. Just give yourself time, because sometimes the chasm beneath our feet is too deep for us to even draw breath in front of it.” He replies, and he feels Thorin sigh in his lap.

“I am keeping you from your rest” Thorin murmurs, and Bilbo’s hands still in his hair. He is shocked.

“I have been keeping your up for all these nights, and I can see it is preventing you from having enough rest. I have been thoughtless, and I apologise” he continues, and Bilbo has absolutely no idea what to say. Since Thorin first woke up, this is the first time he truly takes interest in Bilbo’s well-being, let alone apologise.

“I… It is fine. I never refused you” he utters in the end.

“I am not so sure you would ever refuse me. You seem unable to say no to me, and I am afraid to think I am taking advantage of you.” It is Bilbo’s turn to be a little furious now.

“I will have you know that it is entirely my choice to accept your… your proposals or not” he says, flustered.

( _And I care for you too much not to_ )

“Nevertheless, you must be tired. I shall go now” Thorin replies, raising his head from Bilbo’s lap.

“You could always stay, if you wish” The words come out of Bilbo’s mouth in a rush, chasing each other away. All he knows is he’s not ready to let the King go, to lose the feeling of silky hair on his fingertips. It feels like a fool’s hope, that Thorin might actually take him up on his offer, but his voice has decided for him it was worth a try, even if it means exposing perhaps more than he’s willing to.

Thorin looks him in the eyes and Bilbo has no idea what he sees, but in the end, when for once he is the one to ask him to stay, Thorin accepts and simply nods his head.

Later, when they’re lying in Bilbo’s small bed, most of their clothes discarded somewhere on a chair, all the torches blown out and only the soft light of the fireplace casting shadows upon them, Thorin’s limbs wrap around Bilbo’s, and his head finds a place in the hollow of his neck, his breath warm on Bilbo’s naked chest. The hobbit’s hand finds again Thorin’s ink black hair, and for once, tonight, they are closer than they ever were when Thorin was inside him.

It is only when he feels a little wetness cooling on his chest that Bilbo realises Thorin is finally weeping.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there again.   
> So, just a couple of notes. In the sentence " In this other universe, Bilbo would be back in the Shire already, empty inside, ears straining to hear returning feet and voices at the door." I directly quote Tolkien. Secondly, for the image of Bilbo and Thorin together in bed at the very end, I took inspiration from a photograph of John Lennon and Yoko Ono by Annie Leibovitz that you can see here http://www.pearltrees.com/profpremiere/photos-mythiques/id13395896/item134458550  
> I think suits the situation quite well, because I think that in the end, the one who truly needs the other the most is Thorin, and do keep this in mind.   
> I hope this chapter isn't complete crap.  
> Thank you so much for reading and remember, feedback is always welcome.

**Author's Note:**

> Hullo there. Here I am, embarked on a new little adventure. I reckon this story won't be too long, a few chapters at the most. Bear with me.  
> This version of the BotFA is based more on the book rather than on the movie, apart from the part (in the extended edition) in which Bifur loses the axe embedded in his head. I thought that was nice, even if probably completely unrealistic from a medical point of view.  
> I can promise some angst.  
> And some smut.  
> My mind is always a blur so I'll say no more.


End file.
